A        SELECTION 

i 


WRITINGS 


OF   THE    LATE 


JONATHAN     LAWRENCE,     JUNIOR 


V* 


Stolen  from  hours  I  should  have  tied 
To  musty  volumes  at  my  side ; 
Given  to  hours  that  sweetly  wooed 
My  heart  from  its  study's  solitude. 

Thoughts  of  a  Student 


NEW    YORK. 


M  DCCC  XXXIII. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1833,  by 

SLEIGHT  &  VAN  NORDEN, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


T  ti-  VAN    NORDEN,   PRINT. 

, 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  publication  of  the  following  selection,  from  the 
writings  of  the  late  JONATHAN  LAWRENCE,  Jun.,  has 
been  undertaken  by  the  desire  of  many  of  his  friends, 
and  at  the  particular  request  of  a  literary  association, 
of  which  he  was  for  several  years  a  zealous  and 
active  supporter.  In  preparing  these  remains  for 
the  press,  limited  as  the  circulation  of  the  work  will 
be,  the  Editor  is  conscious  that  he  is  acting  contrary 
to  what  would  probably  have  been  the  wish  of  the 
author,  with  regard  to  productions  written  during 
the  intervals  of  assiduous  application  to  the  studies 
and  duties  of  his  profession,  and  with  a  few  excep 
tions,  not  intended  for  the  public  eye.  Anxious  as 
he  feels  not  to  send  forth  into  the  world  anything 
calculated  to  detract  from  a  reputation  dear  to  him 


iv  INTRODUCTION. 

as  his  own,  he  cannot  but  be  aware  of  the  disadvan 
tages  under  which  this  work  appears  without  the 
supervision   and   correction  of   its   author.      It    is 
deemed  unnecessary  in  a  publication  like  the  present, 
to  enter  into  any  detailed  account  of  a  life,  which, 
marked  by  few  events  of  interest,  had  been  passed  in 
preparing  for  what  promised  to  be  a  bright  career 
of  usefulness   and  honor.     To  enable  the  reader, 
however,  to  ascertain  the  age  of  the  author  at  the 
several    periods   when   the   following  pieces   were 
written,  it  may  be  proper  to  state  that  Mr.  Lawrence 
was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  November  19th, 
1807,  and  died  April  26th,  1833,  before  he  had  com 
pleted  his  26th  year.     The  language  of  panegyric  is 
alike  needless,  for  to  those  who  knew  him  eulogy 
would  be  superfluous,  and  by  those  who  were  un 
acquainted  with  his  character,  it  might  be  attributed 
to  the  influence  of  partial  affection.     The  object  of 
this  publication,  intended  solely  for  the  eye  of  friend 
ship,  will  have  been  fully  answered,  if  it  shall  some 
times  recall  the  remembrance  of  one  certainly  not  un 
worthy  of  the  sympathy  and  regret  which  his  early 


INTRODUCTION.  v 

t 

death  has  called  forth.  The  Editor  would  be  doing 
injustice  to  his  own  feelings,  were  he  to  conclude 
these  brief  remarks  without  expressing  his  deep 
sense  of  the  kindness  of  those  friends  who  have 
aided  him  with  their  advice  and  assistance  in  pre 
paring  the  following  pages  for  the  press. 


M  DCCC  XXXII [. 


. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE.  PAGE. 

Algernon  Sidney,       ...       1  On  the  Poetry  of  Burns,       .  41 

Dialogues  of  the  Dead,  No.  1,  17  On    the    Mission    to    Pa- 

"          "  "      No.  2, 25          nama, 55 

A  Dream,      * 33  On  English  Comedy,       .    .  63 

_.  l^Lj^fck*.        -  ^-* — 

*"          *   * 

'•       >       '  - ,      .         1 

UBSCRIBERS  are  requested  to  make  the  following- 
rations  with  pen  or  pencil  in  the  work : — 
age  12,  for  "plaeidem"  write  "placidarn." 
«   132,  last  line,  for  "Lord's"  write  "God's." 

^-_JUx».s.-, iuy  LOOK  Aloft,  .    .    .-^  7    .  158 

To , 112  Morning  Musing  among  the 

Changes, 114          Hills, 160 

Thoughts  of  a  Student,  .    .117  Elegy  on  Afric,      .     .    .    .163 

Signs  of  Love, 120      To  : , 165 

On  a  Seal, 124      Hymn, 168 

Translations  from    De  Be-  Lines    written    in    an    Al- 

ranger, 126          bum, 170 


I 


CONTENTS. 


- 


PAGE. 

Algernon  Sidney,  ...  1 
Dialogues  of  the  Dead,  No.  1,  17 
No.  2,  25 
...  33 

* 


PAGE. 

On  the  Poetry  of  Burns,       .  41 
On    the    Mission    to    Pa 
nama,    55 

On  English  Comedy,       .    .  63 


A  Dream, 

POETICAL   PIECES. 


PAGE, 

The  Lost  Ship, 77 

The  Indian, 80 

To  a  Chained  Eagle,       .     .     83 
The  Feast  of  Belshazzar,     .     87 

To  Pompeii, 90 

The  Martyr, 93* 

The  Clouds, 98 

To  May, 102 

Forget  Me  Not,     .    .    .    .105 

Forest  Leaves, 107 

Missolonghi, 109 

To , 112 

Changes, 114 

Thoughts  of  a  Student,  .    .117 

Signs  of  Love, 120 

On  a  Seal, 124 

Translations  from    De  Be- 
ranger, 126 


PAGE. 

J_  Q  j        .  •  .  ,  .  •       1  «5 1 

Lines  on  the  Death  of   a 

Young  Lady,     ....  134 
Stanzas  on  Lord  Byron,  .     .  137 

To , 140 

Sea  Song, 143 

To , 145 

My  Choice,  ......   148 

Cowper, 150 

To , 155 

Look  Aloft, 158 

Morning  Musing  among  the 

Hills, 160 

Elegy  on  Afric,      ....  163 

To^ , 165 

Hymn, 168 

Lines    written    in    an    Al 
bum,     170 

V* 


* 


ON    THE 


LIFE     AND     CHARACTER 


ALGERNON     SIDNEY. 


ALGERNON    SIDNEY. 


THE  Revolution,  which  dethroned  Charles  the  First 
of  England,  and  ultimately  conducted  him  to  the 
scaffold,  though  for  a  time  it  established  in  his  room 
a  sovereign  equally  arbitrary,  may  yet  be  justly 
regarded  as  the  seed  which  has  produced  the  plen 
tiful  harvest  of  British  freedom.  It  opened  the  eyes 
of  the  nation  to  the  slavery  under  which  it  had  so 
long  and  so  grievously  labored ;  it  laid  the  axe  to 
that  tree,  which,  under  the  name  of  prerogative,  had 
been  spreading  its  roots  and  branches  to  poison  with 
its  embraces  every  part  of  the  constitution;  but 
above  all,  it  led  to  that  free  spirit  of  inquiry  and 
discussion  which  combines  and  perpetuates  all  those 
advantages  which  it  is  the  first  interest  and  object 
of  tyrants  to  crush,  and  of  patriots  to  uphold ;  well 
knowing,  that  wherever  and  whenever  it  exists,  it  is 
the  source  as  well  as  the  security  of  freedom.  "  Give 


4  ALGERNON    SIDNEY. 

me,"  says  Milton,  "the  liberty  to  know,  to  utter,  and 
to  argue  freely,  according  to  my  conscience,  above 
all  liberties."  Whether  there  be  any  complete  justi 
fication  of  the  spectacle  it  exhibited — a  monarch 
condemned  by  the  voice  of  his  own  subjects  to  die 
the  death  of  the  malefactor — we  are  not  competent 
to  determine ;  but  we  have  to  blush  for  the  absurdity 
of  the  doctrine  that  in  our  age  would  make  his  death 
a  solemn  cause  of  national  hypocrisy.  The  prin 
ciples  of  Charles  were  by  no  means  such  as  would 
entitle  him  to  the  appellation  of  a  martyr,  and  the 
errors  of  his  education,  though  they  may  in  some 
degree  palliate  his  misdeeds,  are  not  surely  to  confer 
upon  him  the  crown  of  the  saint,  who,  having 
endured  and  suffered  all  things  in  a  holy  cause,  has 
finished  a  life  of  faith  by  a  death  of  glory.  Who 
that  can  think  for  a  moment  of  Stephen  or  of  Paul, 
would  be  willing  to  tarnish  the  dignity  of  martyrdom, 
and  the  brightness  of  the  martyr,  by  a  comparison 
that  is  at  once  unjust  and  insulting.  He  had  talents, 
in  truth,  that  might  have  adorned  even  his  high  sta 
tion  :  virtues,  which  in  private  life  would  have  made 
him  an  invaluable  citizen :  but  as  a  king,  as  the  ruler 
of  a  people  jealous  of  their  freedom,  he  was  danger 
ous  both  from  disposition  and  ability ;  and  whatever 
may  be  said  of  his  character,  we  are  content  for  our 
part,  as  we  are  willing,  to  acknowledge  in  every  trait 
of  it  the  wisdom  of  that  providence  which  gave  our 


ALGERNON    SIDNEY.  5 

forefathers  a  monarch  who,  "neither  to  be  instructed 
by  experience,  nor  persuaded  by  argument,"  compel 
led  them  to  appeal,  as  victoriously  and  triumphantly 
they  did,  to  the  rights  of  man,  and  to  the  God  of 
battles.  Irritated  by  the  conduct  of  the  sovereign, 
and  anxious  to  assert  the  rights  he  had  withholden, 
the  people  of  England  were  again  arrayed  in  civil 
combat,  and  in  the  only  cause  that  can  vindicate 
such  a  scene — the  cause  that  involved  their  own  and 
their  children's  happiness.  "The  man,"  says  Home 
Tooke,  "  must  be  hard-hearted  indeed,  who  does  not 
let  fall  a  tear  for  every  drop  of  blood  shed  in  such  a 
struggle,  however  just  the  quarrel;"  but  we  do  think 
that  our  tears  in  such  a  cause  as  theirs,  would  be 
lighted  up  by  the  consciousness  of  duty  if  unfortunate ; 
or  if  successful,  by  the  proud  and  pure  exultation  that 
should  arise  from  such  a  victory,  however  dearly 
bought.  In  the  struggle  that  convulsed  England  at 
this  time,  there  was  hardly  a  middle  course  for  him 
who  felt  for  the  interests  of  his  country,  and  accord 
ingly  we  soon  find  among  the  leaders  of  the  people, 
the  proudly  eminent  name  of  Algernon  Sidney. 

His  family  is  one  of  the  most  illustrious  in  the  re 
cords  of  English  history.  Wit,  valor,  and  generous 
feeling  seem  to  have  descended  with  the  name  from 
generation  to  generation  ;  and  beauty,  can  we  forget 
beauty,  was  theirs.  The  true  knight  bore  proudly 
his  lady's  favors  in  the  bannered  lists,  and  felt  his 

i* 


6  ALGERNON    SIDNEY. 

every  effort  doubly  paid  by  a  smile  or  a  look  from 
"those  bright  eyes  that  rained  their  influence,  and 
adjudged  the  prize;"  while  the  deeds  of  their  sons 
\^pre  the  theme  of  many  a  song,  the  envy  of  many  a 
gallant  knight,  the  secret  pride  and  admiration  of 
many  a  beautiful  bosom.  The  name  of  Sir  Philip 
needs  only  mention  to  awaken  the  finest  recollections. 
His  were  the  "high  thoughts  seated  in  a  heart  of 
courtesy"  that  encircled  his  age  and  memory  with 
the  last  and  loveliest  laurels  of  his  beloved  chivalry, 
and  the  spirit  of  that  chivalry,  the  spirit  that  knew 
not  fear  or  reproach  as  it  animated  his  living  actions, 
drooped  and  died  upon  his  tomb.  The  lustre  that 
seemed  for  a  while  to  live  after  him,  was  only  the  sad 
and  faint  reflection  of  his  glory,  like  the  glowing  rays 
that  linger  upon  some  clear  sunset,  and  are  soon  to 
follow  it  in  its  departure.  Yes ;  he  was  the  last  of 
those  fair  spirits  who-  were  bravest  and  brightest  in 
battle  and  bower,  whose  deeds  gave  to  knighthood 
all  its  renown,  and  whose  passionate  fidelity  bestowed 
upon  woman  her  noblest  prerogatives ;  who  united 
the  warrior  and  the  bard  in  a  rare  and  beautiful 
union,  whose  whole  life  in  fine,  in  the  language  of 
Campbell,  "  was  poetry  put  into  action."  Their  days 
are  gone ;  but  we  love  to  linger  with  them  and  amid 
their  remembrances.  They  are  the  luxuriant  spots 
in  the  dull  waste  of  the  chronicles,  the  fairy  land  of 
memory  in  which  "the  dreaming  boy"  roves  and 


ALGERNON    SIDNEY.  7 

revels  until  visions  of  fair  forms  and  bright  eyes,  of 
knight  and  lady,  of  Sidney  and  of  Geraldine,  are 
with  him,  around  him,  and  before  him. 

Such  were  Algernon  Sidney's  forefathers,  and  the 
son  of  such  sires,  the  scion  of  such  a  stock,  was  an 
honor  to  his  origin.  What  though  it  was  not  his  to 
dally  with,  or  battle  for  a  "ladye  love;"  what  though 
it  was  not  his  to  have  his  name  "  married  to  immor 
tal  verse ;"  his  calling  was  nobler  and  more  exalted ; 
and  with  a  patriotism  as  strong  and  a  soul  as  gallant 
as  the  best  of  his  ancestors,  he  prepared  to  obey  it,  to- 
follow  it  "through  evil  and  good,"  to  glorify  it  in  life 
and  in  death.  The  cause  he  had  espoused  had  now 
become  the  darling  of  his  affections.  His  talents,  the 
rank  he  had  put  to  hazard,  but  above  all,  that  firm, 
unshaken  integrity  that  awes  the  boldest,  and  ani 
mates  in  the  worst  of  times  to  deeds  of  almost  incre 
dible  success ;  these  united  qualities  gave  him  an  in 
fluence  and  an  independence  which  few  possessed, 
and  few  dared  to  exercise  during  the  ascendency  of 
Cromwell.  But  Sidney  was  neither  to  be  the  slave 
of  a  party,  or  the  tool  of  an  intrigue.  So  long  as  the 
future  Protector  acted  for  the  common  weal,  Sidney 
was  by  his  side ;  so  long  as  he  defended  the  rights  his 
countrymen  had  risen  to  defend,  he  found  in  Sid 
ney  a  brave  heart,  and  a  willing  arm  ;  but,  beyond 
this,  he  would  not  go ;  this  was  the  point  in  which 
centred  all  his  hopes,  all  his  exertions  ;  this  was  with 


8  ALGERNON    SIDNEY. 

him  the  line  "  quam  ultra  citraque  nequit  consistere 
rectum."  Frem  this  time  forth  his  course  was  plain, 
and  bold,  and  open.  He  was  above  disguise,  and  he 
scorned  all  fear.  His  opposition  to  the  schemes  of  the 
usurper,  so  long  as  it  could  be  eifectual,  was  warm 
and  ardent ;  but  he  who  "  wielded  at  his  will  the 
fierce  democracy  of  England,"  was  not  to  be  thus  im 
peded,  and  obtained  in  the  eventual  defeat  of  Sidney, 
a  signal  triumph  over  public  and  private  virtue. 
Wiser  than  the  Roman,  warned  by  his  folly  and  his 
example,  Cromwell  had  seized  with  the  authority 
upon  something  of  the  "  pride  and  circumstance"  of 
royalty,  while  his  substantial  greatness  was  rapidly 
increasing  with  the  spread  of  British  commerce,  and 
the  success  of  his  naval  and  military  enterprises. 
Further  opposition,  therefore,  would  have  been  a 
species  of  heroic  insanity,  which  we  may  admire  but 
cannot  pardon  in  him  who  should  have  reserved  him 
self  for  better  days.  In  this  situation,  Sidney  retired 
to  mourn  in  secret  over  the  prostration  of  his 
hopes  and  the  prospects  of  the  people,  and  we  may 
conjecture  that  he  devoted  this  retirement  to  that 
record  of  his  opinions,  which  he  has  left  as  a  valuable 
legacy  to  posterity. 

His  maxims  of  political  truth  ^ere  regarded  by  his 
contemporaries  as  the  daring  and  singular  tenets  of 
a  visionary,  though  they  are  now  neglected  as  the 
common  place  elements,  the  very  axioms  of  the 


•>,- 

» 

• 


ALGERNON  SIDNEY.  9 

science  of  free  governments.  Such  are  the  effects  of 
proceeding  time.  That  which  is  to  us  an  almost 
tangible  reality,  was  enveloped  to  his  view  in  clouds 
and  shadows;  that  which  he  saw  as  "through  a  glass 
darkly,"  is  displayed  to  us  in  the  full  power  and  light 
of  day.  We  have  seen  the  almost  poetry  of  Milton 
confirmed  into  prophecy.  We  have  seen  a  "  nation 
rising  like  a  strong  man  after  his  sleep,  and  shaking 
his  invincible  locks" — we  have  seen  her  throwing 
away  her  shackles  and  prejudices,  the  dimness 
and  the  indolence  of  slumber,  to  secure  to  her 
children,  in  a  long  continued  line,  we  trust,  of 
worthy  descendants,  the  blessings  of  a  freedom 
bounded  only  by  the  natural  imperfections  of  man. 
If  they  could  have  seen  this: — If  they  could  have 
seen  their  offspring,  proud  are  we  of  the  name! 
founding  in  another  and  distant  world  an  empire, 
whose  extent  none  have  ascertained,  and  whose 
future  greatness  it  is  beyond  the  power  of  the  human 
mind  to  calculate,  and  that  empire  "  free,  sovereign, 
and  independent,"  well  might  they  have  exclaimed  in 
the  spirit  of  the  saint,  in  the  language  so  beautifully 
quoted  by  Sidney,  on  a  similar  occasion,  "Lord, 
now  lettest  thou  thy  servants  depart  in  peace,  for  our 
eyes  have  seen  thy.  salvation."  But  to  them  such 
revelations  were  dark;  they  resembled  the  types 'and 
shadows  of  the  Jewish  hierarchy,  whose  interpreta 
tion,  indistinctly  seen  by  the  patriarchs  and  prophets 


10  ^          ALGERNON    SIDNEY. 

of  old,  became  gradually  visible,  until  they  met  on  the 
cross  like  the  lines  of  a  circle  in  its  centre,  so  that 
now  the  Christian  is  enabled  to  walk  in  the  light  of 
their  fulfilment,  and  in  the  freedom  of  the  sons  of 
God.  Such,  too,  has  been,  and  we  trust  will  forever 
be,  the  march  of  liberal  political  principles,  until  in 
the  fulness  of  time,  the  ends  of  the  earth,  enlightened, 
redeemed,  and  regenerated  by  their  influence,  shall 
glory  in  equal  privileges ;  until  the  Greek  shall  again 
crown  the  bowl  of  Liberty  upon  the  soil,  and  beneath 
the  sky  of  his  forefathers  f*  until  our  southern  conti 
nents  shall  present  with  us  an  innumerable  people, 
free,  united,  and  happy ;  until  the  Spaniard  shall  be 
permitted  to  hallow  the  memory  of  Riego,  and  the 
Russian  shall  blush  for  the  ignominy  of  his  servile 
fathers ;  until,  in  fine,  all  nations,  of  every  climate, 
color,  and  description,  shall  worship  with  one  accord 
at  the  altar  of  the  same  freedom. 

To  return — the  death  of  the  Lord  Protector  opens 
to  our  view  another  and  different  era.  Whatever 
may  be  said  of  his  moral  character,  Oliver  Cromwell 
was  without  doubt  the  greatest  statesman  that  ever 
wielded  the  destinies  and  the  sceptre-  of  England. 
Without  eloquence,  I  had  almost  said,  without  the 
powers  of  speech,  he  won  the  affections  of  the  people, 
corrupted  the  integrity  of  parliament,  and  finally, 
subverted  a  form  of  government  that  had  lasted  un 
shaken  for  centuries.  His  success,  in  a  time  when  » 


ALGERNON    SIDNEY.  H 

3ne  mistake  would  have  ruined  his  fortunes,  is  the 
:rue  test  of  his  unequalled  abilities.  He  wanted  but 
ittle  of  that  vaulting  ambition  which  led  Bonaparte  to 
his  rock,  and  would  have  led  him  by  the  same  pro 
cess  to  the  scaifold.  It  is  worthy  also  of  our  obser 
vation  and  regret,  that  one  step  only  would  have 
been  required  to  have  made  him  the  founder  of  a 
2?eat  republic,  and  the  idol  of  succeeding  genera 
tions.  The  crown  he  had  worn  descended  to  his 
son;  but  the  son  inherited  not  the  mantle  of  his 
father :  the  fires  that  had  slumbered  under  the  strong 
hand  now  burst  forth  with  redoubled  violence,  and 
without  energy  to  subdue,  or  address  to  conciliate, 
he  resigned  his  royal  dignity,  to  seek  the  happiness 
it  could  not  aiford. 

The  people,  wearied  out  with  dissensions,  were 
determined  to  procure  repose,  even  at  the  hazard  of 
restoring  the  kingly  authority ;  and  with  a  prospect 
tas  bright  as  ever  opened  on  the  eyes  of  any  prince, 
hailed  with  joy  and  gladness  as  the  hope  of  the  na 
tion,  the  second  Charles  ascended  the  throne  of  his 
fathers.  Educated  in  the  French  court,  a  libertine 
by  profession  as  well  as  disposition,  he  caused  the 
chaste  cheek  to  blush  for  his  open  outrages  of  all 
that  had  been  esteemed  honorable  or  virtuous,  and 
i  made  the  heart  of  every  true  Englishman  burn 
'Within  him,  at  this  base  pollution  of  the  throne  once 
occupied  by  Alfred  and  by  the  Edwards.  It  would 


••v 


12  ALGERNON    SIDNEY. 

have  been  well  for  him  if  he  had  inherited  the  piety 
of  his  parent;  but  he  had  every  vice  .and  wickedness 
of  youth,  without  one  of  his  father's  "redeeming  vir 
tues;  and  we  are  compelled  to  declare,  that  we  find 
in  his  character  nothing  to  cjheck  our  disgust,  or  to 
soften  our  abhorrence.  It  was  a  waste,  a  barren 
waste,  "in  which  no  verdure  quickened,  and  no 
kindly  plant  took  root."  Upon  his  accession,  Eng 
land  was  no  longer  safe  for  those  whose  activity  or 
abilities  had  given  them  distinction  in  the  previous 
troubles,  and  accordingly,  Algernon  Sidney  departed 
to  await  in  exile  an  honorable  return,  and  to  hope 
for  brighter  prospects  in  his  native  land.  But  even 
here,  surrounded  by  courtiers  and  enemies,  he 
displayed  the  same  loftiness  of  feeling,  the  same 
fearlessness  of  danger.  Well  might  the  tyrant  trem 
ble  before  him  who  had  recorded  in  the  face  of  the 
world  as  his  chosen  motto,  "  Hsec  manus  inimica 
tyrannis  ense  petit  jplacidem  sub  libertate  quietem." 
But  the  time  was  fast  approaching  when  his  enemies 
were  to  satisfy  their  vengeance  with  his  blood.  En- 

• 

couraged  by  some  faint  hopes  of  security  at  home, 
he  returned  to  England  and  to  his  death.  The 
spectacle  that  met  his  view  was  not  to  be  supported. 
The  nation  rapidly  giving  way  to  the  strides  of 
prerogative,  and  the  parliament  seconding  every  blow 
against  their  constituents,  and  glorying  in  their  trea 
son,  were  sights  that  stung  him  to  the  quick.  He 

\ ;'    •-  < 


. 

ALGERNON  SIDNEY.  13 

,    **  „    ** 

could  not  see  the  righteous  perish,  and  not  lift  up  his 

voice  against  the  foul  crime :  he  could  not  behold  his 

0 

countrymen  oppressed  and  trampled  on  without  a 
struggle,  and  he  was  ready  to  bare  his  arm  for  their 
redemption,  and  against  the  tyrant.  From  this  mo 
ment,  from  the  moment  in  which  he  oifered  any 
obstacle  to  the  strides  of  the  court,  his  doom  was  deter 
mined  on.  He  was  hunted  and  dogged  in  daylight 
and  darkness,  his  servants  were  traitors  to  his  inter 
ests,  and  his  house  was  no  longer  a  refuge.  There 
are  means  to  accomplish  any  end  however  detestable, 
and  he  was  soon  committed.  His  trial  was  a  mock 
ery  of  justice :  perjury  against  him  was  a  virtue,  and 
the  false  witness  retired  from  his  seat  to  receive  the 
reward  of  his  labors.  There  were  some,  indeed, 
bold  enough  to  protest  against  such  conduct,  and  to 
present  to  the  mercy-seat,  alas,  how  miscalled  !  their 
petitions  for  redress.  But  it  would  in  truth  have 
savored  of  madness  to  have  expected  either  justice  or 
mercy  where  the  judge  was  Jeffries  and  the  sovereign 
was  Charles.  Amiable  association  !  The  libertine 
king,  and  the  infamous  servant,  were  fit  and  happy 
companions.  "  In  their  lives  they  were  lovely,  and 
even  after  death  they  shall  not  be  divided ;"  the  records 
of  history  shall  do  them  most  substantial  justice,  and 
the  names  of  the  real  judge  and  executioner,  of 
Charles  and  of  Jeffries,  shall  desceild  to  posterity 
together.  Sidney  died  upon  the  scaffold;  but  the 
2 


14  ALGERNON  SIDNEY. 

scaffold's  ignominy  (terrors  for  him  it  could  not  have,) 
was  a  word  unknown.  Consecrated  by  the  blood  of 
nobles  and  patriots,  its  boards  had  become  holy 
ground,  and  he  but  added  his  name  to  the  long  list 
of  those  who  were  too  firm  to  be  slaves,  and  too 
fearless  to  be  silent.  He  has  added  his  name  to  theirs 
too,  in  their  triumphant  justification.  Though  the 
writers  of  a  day,  the  minions  and  mercenaries  of  a 
party,  endeavored  to  fasten  upon  him  their  obloquy, 
and  to  sully  that  reputation,  which,  dearer  to  him 
than  his  existence,  has  "  embalmed  and  treasured  up" 
his  memory  "  to  a  life  beyond  life,"  with  Russel  and 
Hampden,  he  has  come  purer  than  gold  refined  from 
the  seven  times  heated  furnace  of  his  persecution ; 
and  as  long  as  virtue,  valor,  and  wisdom,  shall  be 
respected  among  men,  he  will  illustrate  with  them 
the  beautiful  moral  of  the  poet, 

Truth,  tho'  it  troubles  some  minds, 
Some  wicked  minds,  that  are  both  dark  and  dangerous, 
Yet  it  preserves  itself,  comes  off  pure,  innocent, 
And  like  the  sun,  tho'  never  so  eclipsed, 
Must  break  in  glory. 

Above  all,  it  becomes  our  country  to  cherish  and  to 
reverence  his  name.  The  principles  that  have  given 
us  a  rank  among  the  nations,  that  have  bestowed 
upon  us  our  various  details  of  security  and  happiness, 
founded  on  the  broad  basis  of  equal  law  and  justice, 
and  comprehending  the  free  enjoyment  of  life,  liberty, 


• 

ALGERNON  SIDNEY.  15 

. 

and  property;  the  principles  that  have  made  us 
what  we  now  are,  and  will  make  us  whatever  we 
shall  be,  he  loved,  he  lived,  and  died  for.  It  were  idle 
to  tell  you  of  their  influence.  You  behold  and  feel 
it  in  every  step  you  take,  in  every  object  that  meets 
your  view.  Ours  is  not  that  phantom  liberty,  that 
licentiousness,  which  incited  the  French  Revolu 
tionists  to  deeds  of  rapine  and  murder  only  to  mock 
them  by  its  departure ;  but  that  bounded  and  char 
tered  liberty,  which,  resting  for  its  preservation  on 
the  happiness  it  secures,  can  never  be  lost,  while  men 
are  worthy  of  its  enjoyment. 

Let  it  be  our  care,  then,  to  protect  it ;  and  if  ever 
the  time  should  come,  when  oppression,  foreign  or 
domestic,  in  any  shape  or  disguise  whatever,  shall 
seek  to  weaken  it,  or  to  wrest  it  from  us,  let  us  unite 
with  one  heart  and  one  voice  "  to  crush  the  tyrant 
while  we  rend  the  chain ;"  and  in  the  glorious  lan 
guage  inscribed  upon  the  tomb  of  one  of  Sidney's 
noblest  compatriots,  let  us  "  never,  never  forget,  that 
opposition  to  tyrants  is  obedience  to  God." 

M  DCCC  XXVI. 


* 


* 

m 


#•' 


* 


t  ' 


«!*• 

Up:.*    ' 

» 

rjK  .- 


DIALOGUES  OF  THE   DEAD. 


•f. 

... 


, 

DIALOGUES    OF    THE    DEAD. 


No.  I. 


MILTON  AND  SHAKSPEARE. 


'    « 

"  Who  is  this, 

That  with  warm  veins,  and  limbs  and  features  fresh 
JjI'With  the  sun's  life,  comes  to  inhabit  with 
The  hidden  dead?" 

Milton.  Yes  !  but  it  was  the  deed  of  the  people 
of  England.  The  factious  tumult  of  a  violent  and 
turbulent  mob,  without  perceivable  aim  or  purpose, 
such  as  we  have  known  in  the  old  times,  was  not  the 
scene  displayed  in  that  awful  and  bloody  theatre; 
nor  by  the  hands  of  a  few  banded  swordsmen3 
without  character  or  provoking  cause,  did  the  man. 
Charles  Stuart,  meet  his  righteous  and  just  death. 
It  was  the  calm  and  settled  doom  decreed  him  by 
those,  upon  whom  he  and  his  butterfly  minions  had 
trampled,  and  whose  unsleeping  resentment  his  long 
and  unstinted  oppressions  had  kindled. 

Shakspeare.  But  I  tell  thee,  John  Milton,  the 
people  of  England  were  not  rightfully  nor  lawfully 


20  DIALOGUES  OF  THE  DEAD. 

acting,  to  rise  up  in  armed  rebellion  against  their  < 
throned  sovereign ;  him  on  whom  the  priests  of  God's 
holy  altar  had  poured  the  oil  of  their  consecration. 

^ 

Milton.  And  I  tell  thee,  thou  art  talking  in  the 
foolish  and  bold  style  of  the  haughty  Tudors  :  of  that 
lustful  king,  whose  marriage  bed  was  denied  with 
divorces  and  stained  with  murders ;  of  that  Mary, 
whose  blazing  faggots,  fired  to  consume  the  saints, 
seemed  almost  to  rival  the  light  of  the  sun  in  heaven  ; 
of  that  strong-handed  Elizabeth,  the  virgin  queen  as 
ye  called  her,  to  whom  your  own  verses,  William 
Shakspeare,  gave  an  unworthy  fame,  an  immor 
tality,  which  she  deserved  not. 

Shakspeare.  Now,  by  heavens !  I  will  not  and 
cannot  bear  it :  she  was  my  most  royal  and  loving  mis 
tress,  and  thou  shalt  not  slander  her  memory.  Did 
she  not,  woman  as  she  was,  but  with  manly  soul, 
raise  such  a  spirit  as  would  have  crushed  the  proud 
Spaniard,  if  he  had  set  foot  on  our  sea-girt  island  ? 
Did  she  not,  by  her  wise  counsels,  put  to  flight  that 
fleet,  that  armada,  which  the  pride  of  the  Dons  called 
invincible  ?  For  shame  !  John  Milton — she  was  the 
friend  and  patron  of  poets — for  shame  ! 

Milton.  She  was  the  friend  and  patron  of  poets, 
sayest  thou  ?  In  what  manner  she  befriended  them, 
I  know  not,  unless  your  starving  poets  be  false,  and 
honest  poverty  tells  no  lies.  The  splendid  Spenser, 
whose  Belphoabe  thou  knowest  she  was,  tells  not  much 


MILTON  AND  SHAKSPEARE.  21 

of  her  bounty ;  and  if  fame  be  not  an  arrant  liar,  even 
thou  thyself,  William  Shakspeare,  hadst  no  sufficient 
reward  of  thy  praises,  unless  empty  smiles,  and  worth 
less  favors,  could  purchase  house  and  raiment ;  but 
thou  art  wandering  from  the  point.  Nero  was  the 
friend  of  poets.  I  reproach  thy  loving  mistress,  as 
thou  callest  her,  for  upholding  those  proud  and  blas 
phemous  doctrines  of  divine  princely  right,  which 
her  unhappy  descendant,  by  supporting,  hath  lost  both 
sovereignty  and  life;  and  I  upbraid  thee  for  approving 
such  doctrines.  If  the  eagle  can  soar  to  the  sun,  he 
•  must  needs  see  the  spots  on  its  surface. 

Shakspeare.  Aye,  but  what  if  there  be  no  spots 
to  see  ?  and  if  there  be,  I  am  no  eagle  to  soar  to  him. 
Bandy  me  no  compliments ;  they  are  the  counters 
with  which  keen  men  win  fools  money ;  but  if  thou 
wilt  reason,  I  will  talk  to  thee.  Answer  me  then, 
John  Milton  ;  was  not  the  government  of  England 
a  noble  and  free  government,  limited  and  checked, 
and  yet  strengthened  by  the  strength  of  a  wise  and 
virtuous  monarch,  honored  and  graced  by  the  spirit- 
stirring  memories  of  her  ancient  and  brave  barons, 
and  healthy  and  vigorous  in  the  independence  of 
her  proud  peasant  yeomanry  ? 

Milton.  I  tell  thee  again,  William,  thou  art  jeer 
ing  and  trifling  with  me ;  truly,  the  government  of 
England  was  checked  by  the  strength  of  the  mon 
arch,  which  I  would  the  rather,  and  more  reasonably 


22  DIALOGUES    OF    THE    DEAD. 

j 

call  an  overweening  despotism;  and  for  the  enduring  J 
influence  of  your  time-honored  nobility,  (honored  in  I 
no  other  way  that  I  wot  of,)  were  they  not  court  | 
flatterers,  and  brawlers,  and  revellers,  like  Leicester  f 
and  Essex,  living  in  the  false  smiles  of  a  weak  headed  i 
woman,  when  they  should  have  been  foremost  in  I 
opposing  the  avaricious  greediness  of  her  preroga-  ^ 
tives  ?  or  like  those  ^gwash-bucklers,  their  followers, 
drabbing  and  dicing  at  gambling  houses  and  brothels,  * 
shorn  of  their  strength  by  enticing   Dalilahs,  when 
they  should  have  been  in  the  field,  breaking  in  sunder 
the  chains  of  the  people?     And  as  to  your  proud  pea-  J 
santry  !    What  were  their  representatives — so  called,  I 
I  fear  me,  in  jest — what  these  commons  of  England,  i 
but  slaves  and  parasites;  to  whom  your  queen  gave  a 

bone  when  they  fawned,  and  a  buflet  when  they  bit ; 

j  j 

cowardly  dogs,  who  shrunk  from  her  hand,  and  | 
slunk  from  her  presence  !  I  would  that  thou  hadst  1 
lived  in  our  times  ! 

Shakspearc.     And  I  would  not,  that  I  had  lived  1 
to  see  the  royalty  of  our  Alfreds,  and  Henrys,  and 
Edwards,  prostrated,  and  the  temple  of  God  levelled  J 
before  a  rabble  of  low-born  men.     If  these  be  the 
happy  times  ye  prate  of,  when  kingly  blood  was  spililj 
like  stagnant  pool  water,  and  priests'  mitres  cleft  by  \ 
the  hand  of  damned  faction,  I  care  not  to  have  seen  j 
them ;  nay,  I  am  more  than  content  to  have  lived  ft 


MILTON    AND    SHAKSPEARE. 

ander  the  peaceful  and  pure  reign  of  good  queen 
Bess,  the  lion  heart  of  England. 

Milton.     Then  live  upon  that,  thy  fair  memory. 

[  envy  thee  not.     For  my  poor  self,  I  rejoice  that  my 

i.ot  was  cast  in  better  and  freer  days,  when  kings, 

who  misgoverned,  found  not  a  protection  in  their 

dnsel  trappings,  and  men  who  presumed  to  wield  the 

fiery  indignation  and  cleaving  curse  of  God  against 

the  unshackling  of  consciences,  priests  of  Bel  and 

the  Dragon,  that  unholy  union  of  church  and  state, 

which  the  inspired  power  of  our  Daniel  hath  rent  in 

sunder,  and   laid  bare  to  shame  and  scorn ;  when 

these  men,  I  say,  have  been  torn  from  their  fat  livings 

and  riotous  merriment,  their  stalls  of  lust  and  bigotry ; 

|<and  as  for  that  rabble  of  which  thou  talkest,  I  tell 

|  thee  once  again  it  was  no  rabble  :  i£  was  a  whole 

people,  a  whole  nation,  rising  up  wim  one  accord  to 

;smite  the  persecuting  Pharaoh,  amid  his  purple  and 

guards,  not  only  with    prayers  and   offerings,  but 

with  the  arms  with  which  God  himself  had  armed 

£  • 

them.  Had  he  not  enforced,  (answer  me  this,)  had 
he  not  enforced  many  of  our  best  and  bravest  to  flee 
from  his  tyranny  into  the  strange  lands  beyond  the 
waters?  Is  not  many  a  hearth-stone  cold,  that 
should  be  warm  with  the  fires  and  hospitality  of 
merry  England,  while  they,  who  in  by-gone  days  sat 
around  it,  are  wandering  in  the  cold,  and  roofless,  and 
shelterless  wilderness  ?  Hath  he  not  outraged  our 


24  DIALOGUES    OF    THE    DEAD. 

rights  and  laws,  and  the  hard-won  charters  of  our 
liberties  contemptuously  set  at  nought  ?  and  should 
his  pride  of  place,  as  thou  thyself  hast  called  it,  protect 
him  from  the  vengeance  of  a  trampled  people?  I  tell 
thee,  William  Shakspeare,  the  blood  of  Charles  Stuart, 
the  tyrant,  shall  fatten  the  fields  of  England.  Its  crops  > 
shall  not  be  armed  men,  as  in  the  old  fable  we  read 
of,  but  a  harvest  of  glorious  principles ;  and  our  pos 
terity  shall  look  back  to  us,  and  bless  us,  for  that  we 
have  not  submitted  to  wear  the  chains  with  which 
he  would  have  fettered  our  frames,  and  them  through 
us.  But  thou  wilt  not  listen  to  me ;  go  to,  then,  enjoy 
thy  dreams  of  fiction  and  the  remembrance  of  thy 
revels  with  the  ungodly ;  for  me,  I  offer  my  morning  f 
and  evening  and  unceasing  thanks  to  Him,  for  his 
gift  of  power  and  strength  to  refute  their  sophistries, 
and  tear  in  pieces,  and  scatter  to  the  free  winds  v 
under  the  firmament,  the  cobwebs  of  the  hired  crew  J 
who  would  pull  down  the  strong  defences  of  our 
righteous  cause,  and  restore  the  young  wolf  to  batten 
himself,  and  to  redden  his  jaws  in  the  blood  of  the 
innocent  and  the  righteous. 


M  DCCC  XXVI. 


DIALOGUES    OF    THE    DEAD. 


No.  II. 


CHARLES  II.  AND  COWPER. 


Cowpetr.     But  posterity,  your  majesty,  gives  your 
^  reign  little  credit  for  virtue  or  wit.     They  say  that 
you  were  abandoned ;  caring  little  for  God'sllaw,  or 
Rhe  law  which  yourselves  had  made. 

Charles.  Little  credit  for  virtue,  saidst  thou? 
Why  we  were  anchorites  by  the  side  of  France,  with 
her  eternal  revellings  and  bare  licentiousness,  her 
iimaskings  and  mistresses  !  We  did  but  imitate  her 
*gayeties,  and  even  those  at  an  humble  distance. 

Cowper.  Yes !  and  for  this  imitation  they  cen 
sure  you.  They  say  that  you  and  your  courtiers 
corrupted  the  bold  spirit  of  our  English  Barons,  to 
make  them  supple  Frenchmen  and  effeminate  flatter 
ers.  That  the  quick  and  manly  honor,  which  would 
have  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  our  old  princes,  our 
Harrys  and  Edwards,  yielded  with  thee  to  fawning 
and  profaning  baseness ;  and  that  thou  thyself,  thou. 
Charles  of  England,  became  a  pensioner  of  France,  of 


* 


26  DIALOGUES    OF    THE    DEAD. 

that  France  whose  fields  were  red  with  the  victorious 
blood  of  their  ancestors  and  thine !  Was  this  foul 
charge  true  ? 

Charles.  Havev  they  gone  so  deep  into  kingly 
secrets  ?  But  it  was  true,  too  true.  Yet  they  should 
remember,  that  the  resources  of  our  kingdom  were 
weakened,  and  that  we  needed  money  to  support  our  \ 
state  and  government.  It  was  to  prevent  the  burdens 
of  taxation. 

q 

Cowper.    What !  take  bribes  from  France  because 
England  was  poor — and  to  support  thy  government ! 
History  says  it  was  to  supply  thy  pleasures,  and  to 
provide  for  court  mummeries.     And  because  Eng 
land  was  poor? — for  shame!     I  had  rather  it  had 
been  told  that  Englishmen  were  beggars,  than  that    ; 
their  sovereign  should  wear  the  collar  of  a  descendent 
of  St.  Louis :  their  prince  be  the  pander  of  foreign 
France  !     I  blush  for  thee  and  my  country;  for  was 
there  ever  a  time,  tell  me,  when  England  was  too 
poor  to  pour  out  her  heart's  blood  for  her  wise  laws,  -% 
her  pure  religion,  her  natural  throne?    But  what  say 
you  for  your  licentiousness  and  courtly  adulteries?  * 
What  of  the  marriage  bed  profaned  with  impunity, 
aye,  and  with  praise,  and  all  by  thine  own  example? 

Charles.     Pshaw,   man !     Why  I  tell  thee  our  | 
days   were  glorious  and  peaceful  days — rebellion 
was  punished  and  loyalty  rewarded. 

Cowper.    Aye;  the  rebellion  of  Sidney  and  the 


CHARLES    II.    AND    COWPER.  27 

loyalty  of  Jeffries !  Charles  Stuart,  the  blood  of  that 
iman  cries  from  the  scaffold  against  thee!  It  was 
awfully  avenged  on  thine  infamous  minister. 

Charles.  Avenged,  saidst  thou  ?  My  vengeance 
was  but  slight  on  him  who  leagued  with  Cromwell 
and  Bradshaw  to  murder  my  father,  and  then  shrunk 
i from  his  blood;  who  retired  to  the  groves  of  Pens- 
1  hurst,  given  to  his  ancestors  by  my  ancestors,  that  he 
i  might  not  look  upon  the  innocent  victim.  Why  did 
he  not  gather  some  of  the  spirit  of  his  sires  from  the 
old  oaks  which,  until  then,  had  never  shaded  trea 
son  or  traitor?  Why  did  he  not  come  out,  and  cry 
against  the  deed  on  hill  and  house-top,  in  palace  or 
prison  ?  Was  he  to  be  visited  in  mercy  ? 

Cowper.  Nay;  but  it  would  have  been  madness. 
Thou  thyself  mightest  as  well  have  rushed  upon 
Cromwell  in  his  "pride  of  place,"  among  his  puritans 
and  guardsmen,  instead  of  crouching  in  disguise  with 
thy  father's  friends,  and  waiting  for  occasion.  And 
I  warrant  you,  the  old  fox  would  have  received  you 
with  open  jaws !  But  thou  saidst  thy  days  were 
glorious  and  peaceful  days. 

Charles.  Aye !  and  say  it  still.  Was  not  Eng 
land  called  merry  England  in  my  days,  and  was  I 
not  its  merry  monarch  ?  It  is  true,  I  did  not  pray 
and  fast  in  public  to  blaspheme  and  banquet  in  pri 
vate,  as  did  the  regicide  hypocrites.  And  besides,  the 
people  had  been  kept  so  long  in  sackcloth  and  ashes 


28  DIALOGUES    OF    THE    DEAD. 

by  those  canting  roundheads,  that  they  called  for 
some  relaxation,  for  diversions  and  amusements. 

Cowper.  Diversions  and  amusements,  sayest  thou ; 
and  peaceful  and  merry  ?  There  was  a  time  when 
the  war-cry  of  St.  George  for  merry  England  would 
have  been  hushed  on  the  battle-field,  if  such  merri 
ment  as  thou  talkest  of  had  stained  the  escutcheons 
of  our  nobles,  soiled  the  ermine  of  Justice,  and  dis 
graced  the  princely  sceptre  :  days,  when  amusement 
and  diversion  did  not  stand  in  our  clear  language  for 
blasphemy  and  shamelessness.  Well  may  we  blush 
for  thy  reign,  for  prince  and  people;  and  on  thee 
must  the  accusation  rest.  When  they  who  sit  in 
high  places  are  open  wassailers  and  unjust  slaves, 
what  think  you  must  the  subjects  be?  How  can 
the  low  lands  but  be  overflowed  when  the  torrent 
rushes  from  the  mountain?  Your  father  was  at 
least  pious  and  moral. 

Charles.  Aye,  and  was  beheaded  for  his  piety 
and  morality,  and  his  son  was  ever  determined  to 
shun  his  fate.  But  I  will  bear  no  longer  thy  re 
proaches  and  rebukes.  > 

Cowper.  Well,  then,  let  us  change  the  subject. 
Posterity  says  ye  were  low  in  wit  as  ye  were  high 
in  vice ;  and  that  ye  did  not  even  redeem  your  degra 
dation  in  morals  by  your  splendor  in  genius,  which 
sometimes,  like  the  exhalation  from  a  marsh,  throws 
a  lustre  around  corruption.  Do  they  say  true  ? 


Charh 


CHARLES    II.    AND    COWPER.  29 


les.  Why,  I  do  not  think  we  were  over 
stocked  with  philosophers ;  but  we  had  some  singing- 
birds.  I  bethink  me  now,  there  was  the  sweet  and 
melancholy  Cowley,  and  my  own  frolicksome  friend, 
Rochester :  a  little  wild  perhaps,  but  a  jovial  fellow ; 
and  Tom  D'Urfey;  a  merrier  bard  never  trolled 
ballad,  nor  poured  off  bumper.  His  songs  were 
exquisite ;  the  very  darlings  of  true  cavaliers.  There 
was  Buckingham,  too,  mine  own  counsellor ;  and 
there  was  Lovelace  and  his  Althea.  Love  was  his 
element :  he  was  a  gallant  and  a  loyal  knight ! 

Cowper.  And  was  there  none  other  ?  Cowley,  I 
grant  you,  was  musical  in  his  melancholy:  some 
what  conceited;  but  he  ha,d  the  true  English  vein  in 
him  at  times.  And  Dryden :  hast  thou  forgotten 
him  with  his  majestic  march  of  verse  ?  Rochester 
was  a  pest  and  a  disgrace,  Buckingham  and  Tom 
D'Urfey  are  forgotten,  "requiescant  in  pace;"  but 
think !  was  there  not  one  more  ? 

Charles.  Not  one  more  !  What  or  whom  mean 
you? 

Cowper.  Was  there  not  one  Milton,  one  John 
Milton  ? 

Charles.  Aye,  some  did  say  he  was  a  goodly  poet, 
that  same  writing  roundhead :  who  was  worse  than 
Cromwell,  the  arch-fiend  himself;  for  the  Protector, 
as  they  called  him,  fought  openly  and  boldly,  but 
this  rhymer  was  better  pleased  with  his  safe  closet  for 

3* 


30  DIALOGUES    OF    THE    DEAD. 

a  field,  his  beggarly  books  for  soldiers,  and  his  false 
pen  for  a  sword.  Cromwell  could  only  touch  my 
father's  body;  but  he,  this  lurking  assassin,  wounded 
his  fair  fame.  But  in  our  time  he  was  done  with 
his  tractates ;  and  his  manifestoes  and  answers  were 
thrown  to  the  dogs ;  and  his  verses,  by  the  side  of  my 
gay  Rochester's,  were  like  the  pipings  of  Marsyas 
to  the  divine  reed  of  Apollo.  Aye ;  my  noble 
Rochester  !  he  was  your  man  for  a  pretty  girl  or  a 
drinking  bout !  and  yet  he  handled  the  pen  well  too. 
Why,  I  tell  you,  Milton  was  but  a  chirping  grass 
hopper  to  him. 

Coivper.  Milton  a  chirping  grasshopper  to  Ro 
chester  !  Why,  he  is  the  prince  of  poetry ;  and  the 
verse  of  your  age  is  identified  with  his  name.  He 
divides  the  palm  with  Shakspeare ;  and  Rochester 
is  forgotten  when  Milton  is  mentioned. 

Charles.  Ods  fish,  man  !  why  thou  art  running 
on  finely !  What,  John  Milton ;  the  psalm-singing 
independent,  the  lying  secretary,  the  blind  proser  ! 

Cowper.  Aye,,  wonder  as  you  will,  and  jeer  as 
you  will.  That  blind  John  Milton  was  a  very  sun- 
daring  eagle  in  the  firmament  of  English  genius. 
He  is  the  glory  of  England,  and  the  pride,  aye,  and 
the  disgrace  of  your  own  reign.  I  tell  you  again,  he 
is  a  twin  prince  with  the  immortal  of  Avon.  Ye 
thought,  indeed,  that  he  was  mad,  when  he  told  you 
of  his  destined  immortality;  and  ye  said  that  he  was 


CHARLES    II.    AND    COWPER.  31 

overpaid  with  the  paltry  ten  pounds,  which  your 
booksellers  gave  him ;  but  he  knew  better,  and  the 
fame  he  prophesied  is  ignominy  to  the  fame  he  pos 
sesses  ;  and  the  ten  pounds  multiplied  by  tens  of 
thousands,  would  never  repay,  if  dross  could,  the 
price  of  his  labors!  He  was  blind,  say  ye?  but  he 
saw  farther  than  the  clearest  sighted  of  you,  for  he 
saw,  through  the  mists  of  obloquy  and  disgrace,  the 
light  of  his  glory.  He  was  poor,  say  ye?  but  he  is 
richer  than  the  proudest  of  ye,  in  the  fair  memories 
of  men.  He  was  a  psalm-singing  independent,  say 
ye?  but  the  music  of  his  pure  and  holy  devotion 
shall  die  not  but  with  our  language.  But  I  grow 
wanton  in  his  praise.  I  tell  ye,  then,  for  all,  that 
the  blind  beggar,  the  rhyming  secretary,  and  the 
psalm-singing  independent,  is  remembered  as  the 
second  father  of  English  poetry,  and  not  the  least 
honorable  or  honored  of  English  patriots. 

- 


M  DCCC  XXVI, 


A      DREAM 


tjfi 


•«* 

4. 


DREAM. 


I  AM  a  dreamer.  The  visions  of  the  night  have 
power  over  me — terrible  and  magical  power.  Sleep, 
that  gives  to  the  worn  and  weary  of  this  world 
an  elysium  of  fairy  sights  and  unreal  enjoyments, 
or  better  still,  the  "sober  certainty"  of  repose, 
plunges  me  into  scenes  of  the  wildest  and  busiest 
commotion :  into  the  most  inaccessible  haunts,  where 
the  light  of  the  glorious  sun  would  seem  to  have 
striven  with  the  spirits  of  darkness,  and  to  have 
yielded  in  the  strife:  through  the  dungeons  of  the 
inquisition,  poisoned  and4  foul  with  the  venomed 
L  breathing  of  its  brute  inhabitants,  or  sad  and  sor 
rowful  with  the  recorded  griefs  of  those  who  have 
made  friends  of  fetters :  amid  the  moving  mountains 
of  the  great  deep,  with  its  silent  tales  of  "  tall  and 
richly  freighted  argosies,"  of  forms  of  manly  beauty, 
and  hearts  of  manly  pride  and  power  !  Such  are 
the  scenes  to  which  I  am  transported,  to  realize  in 


35  A    DREAM. 

fancy  the  agonies  which  reality  has  inspired.  Never, 
never,  after  all  that  I  have  seen  and  acted,  can  I 
deny  the  influence  of  the  imagination  upon  its 
covering  of  clay,  even  unto  the  pangs  of  death.  I 
can  believe  on  this  point  almost  beyond  the  bounds 
of  credibility  and  credulity,  from  the  observation  of 
this  influence  upon  myself.  While  others  are  laugh 
ing  at  the  stories  founded  upon  it  as  the  excited 
efforts  of  the  imagination,  I  too  can  laugh  at  those 
who  would  limit  or  define  the  faculties  which  God 
hath  wisely  appointed  to  be  mysteries  unto  us,  but 
which,  in  his  hands,  are  controlled  to  advance  his 
inscrutable  purposes.  I  have  seen  those,  who 
scouted  the  idea  that  such  "  things  should  overcome 
us  like  a  summer  cloud."  staggered  and  confounded 
by  facts,  which  could  not  be  questioned  without  a 
declaration  of  scepticism  with  regard  to  any  and  all 
human  evidence.  Reason  becomes  ridiculous  when 
it  is  applied  to  test  this  wonderful  influence.  But  to 
my  dream.  It  is  the  last  and  most  distinct.  Every 
thought,  every  hope,  every  "  fear  that  kindled  hope," 
every  longing  and  disappointment,  are  living  and 
burning  within  me !  The  hot  tear,  the  hurried  grasp, 
the  long  struggle,  the  last  bubbling  cry,  that  told  the 
end  of  the  combat,  all  "  run  molten  still  in  memory's 
mould,"  in  clear,  and  strong,  and  imperishable  im 
pressions.  It  is  on  this  account  I  relate  it.  Many 
may  have  had  such  dreams,  but  in  few,  perhaps, 


A    DREAM.  37 

f- 

have  they  been  so  luminously,  so  indelibly  stamped. 
As  I  write,  I  shudder  at  the  recoHection.  You  may 
have  imagined  from  my  expressions  that  it  was  at 
sea.  It  was  so.  Our  vessel  was  large  and  strong ; 
her  sails  were  bellying  to  the  breeze ;  all  was  fair 
above,  around,  beneath ;  the  long  blue  waves  sunk 
gently  under  her  hull  as  she  leaped  and  pranced 
upon  their  backs.  It  was  the  hour  of  evening.  None 
but  those  who  have  been  on  the  ocean  can  conceive 
the  glories  of  that  hour.  The  broad  red  disk  of  the 
sun,  dipping  and  burying,  and  covered,  in  the  farthest 
wave  that  mingles  with  the  horizon ;  the  mellow  and 
trembling  radiance  that  streams  upon  the  top  of  each 
billow ;  the  splendid  tints  reflected  in  the  light  clouds 
which  are  gathered  around,  as  if  to  witness  the  death 
scene  of  departing  majesty — I  could  almost  have 
sworn  that  Byron's  lines  were  written  there  in  that 
spot,  as  I  uttered  with  the  fervency  of  a  long  forgotten 
devotion : 


I 


"  Ave  Maria  !  over  earth  and  sea, 
This  heavenliest  hour  of  heaven  is  worthiest  thee." 

It  was  evening  —  yet  a  few  moments,  and  the 
shadows  on  the  waves  grew  darker  and  darker  :  the 
sails  looked  in  the  growing  obscurity  like  the  white 
wings  of  some  vast  sea  bird  hurrying  to  her  nest, 
until  at  length  all  was  lost  in  undistinguishable 
blackness  :  and  it  was  night.  "  A  change  came  o'er 


38  A    DREAM. 

the  spirit  of  my  dream."  There  were  hurrying  and 
trampling  of  feet,  and  oaths  mingled  with  the  voice 
of  command.  The  canvass  was  in  ribands,  and 
now  and  then  by  the  lightning  we  could  discover  its 
fragments,  torn  and  white,  among  the  irregular 
waves.  The  timbers  creaked.  The  water  through 
which  our  ship  was  flying,  rose  along  her  sides  in 
mingled  flame  and  foam,  and  looked  when  the 

S  / 

sudden  gleam  lightened  over  it  like  the  hot  flanks 
of  the  gallant  steed.  Among  the  men  there  was  no 
muttering,  no  sound,  no  sign  of  cowardice.  The 
flash  which  showed  the  face  of  a  seaman  showed  the 

• 

face  of  a  hero.  They  looked  like  men  who  knew 
their  doom  was  come :  that  to  repine  was  folly,  to 
resist  was  impossible.  They  clung  indeed  to  the 
rigging,  but  it  was  with  the  convulsive  grasp  that 
marks  the  predominancy  of  natural  instinct  over  the 
firmest  resolutions,  and  the  most  fearless  spirit.  One 
by  one  they  were  swept  away — not  a  groan,  not  a 
sound  was  heard ;  but  after  the  rush  of  each  wave, 
the  question  that  hastily  uttered  remained  unan 
swered,  told  eloquently  and  sadly,  that  "another  unit 
was  withdrawn  from  the  sum  of  human  existence." 
As  for  myself,  I  ha,d  hopes — 1  clung  to  my  hold 
benumbed  and  wearied.  The  gray  and  sullen 
morning  dawned.  Yesterday  it  dawned  on  many  a 
stout  form,  and  warm  heart — the  strength  of  the 
one  had  been  useless,  the  warmth  of  the  other  was 


• 


A    DREAM. 

cold  for  ever.  I  looked  in  every  direction  to  discern 
a  sail.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen,  but  the  billows 
heaving  and  swelling,  as  the  wrestler  pants  after  a 
desperate  conflict.  The  vessel  was  sinking  slowly 
but  surely.  I  dragged  myself  by  strong  efforts  to 
the  top.  Here  was  the  last  plank  that  separated  me 
from  the  devouring  element.  The  water  rose 
gradually.  I  gazed  eagerly  till  all  sight  seemed  to 
be  lost.  I  felt  the  water  as  it  touched  my  foot. 
It  rose.  It  was  up  to  my  neck.  I  loosed  my  hold 
with  a  shriek.  I  rose  and  sunk,  and  rose  and 
sunk  again.  I  felt  the  water  bubbling  from  my 
mouth.  I  sunk  down,  down,  down  among  hideous 
forms.  There  were  the  whale,  and  the  kraken,  and 
the  dolphin.  I  knew  by  the  blackness  I  had  reached 
the  bottom.  I  felt  around.  There  was  a  voice 
calling  to  me.  It  called  me  once,  twice,  and  again  ; 
and  I  awoke  to  hear  the  awful  sound  that  summoned 
me  to  breakfast ! 

•#• 


«  »  « 


*     * 


* 


ON  THE    POETRY  OF   BURNS. 


w*  * 


ON    THE    POETRY    OF    BURNS 


THE  people  of  Scotland  have  always  been  famed 
for  the  sweetness  and  variety  of  their  music  and 
song.  The  causes  of  this  reputation,  may,  we  think, 
be  easily  traced  in  the  circumstances  which  attend 
their  lives,  and  form  their  habits.  We  believe  it  is 
now  pretty  well  settled,  since  the  time  of  Montes 
quieu,  that  the  influence  of  climate  and  country  on 
the  character,  is  extremely  great.  The  gayety  and 
light-heartedness  of  the  French  peasant,  may  easily 
be  attributed  to  the  productiveness  of  his  soil,  and 
the  kindly  beauty  of  his  sky;  the  luxurious 
indolence  of  the  east,  to  its  enervating  breezes  and 
"lazy  pacing  clouds";  the  proud  and  haughty 
freedom  of  the  English,  to  their  insulated  situation, 
and  their  melancholy  but  generous  feeling  to  their 
clouded  heavens,  and  the  wilder  independence  of 
the  Scotch  and  Swiss,  together  with  their  more 


, 


44        ON  THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS. 

moderate  excitement  and  saving  prudence  to  their 
mountainous  arid  barren  hills  and  heaths.  It  is  this 
last  cause  of  Scotch  peculiarity  which  leads  us  back 
to  the  subject  of  our  essay,  the  poetry  of  Scotland, 
and  chiefly  of  Burns.  It  is  this  very  face  of  its 
country,  which  makes  Scotland  the  land  of  song. 
It  is  this,  which  led  to  the  sub-division  into  feuds 
and  clans,  which  in  their  turn  produced  martial 
feeling  and  limited  communion  among  themselves, 
the  sources  of  those  strains  which  express  and  echo 
in  every  note  the  strength  of  their  attachments  and 
their  enmities.  Every  mountain  peak,  every  valley 
and  cave  and  loch,  were  known  from  childhood  to 
the  dwellers  in  their  recesses,  and  were  familiar  to 
their  imaginations,  as  the  abodes  of  unearthly  spirits, 
or  mingled  in  their  memory  with  some  wild  and 
wondrous  deed.  To  this  fact,  we  may  refer  for  the 
love  of  locality  which  characterizes  their  songs. 
They  abound  in  allusions  to  peculiar  battle-fields  and 
trysting  knowes.  The  hero  of  their  verse  combats 
amid  scenes  which  yet  echo  to  the  gathering  cry,  or 
to  the  victorious  lay.  or  to  the  lament  for  the  gallant 
dead ;  or  breathes  his  tale  on  the  rock  or  in  the 
valley  which  is  consecrated  to  some  gentle  recollec 
tion,  and  has  been  the  haunt  of  plighted  faiths  and 
simple  loves  for  centuries.  The  sub-divisions  of 
which  we  have  spoken,  led  them  to  such  an  intimate 
connection  with  each  othe$  that  when  there  was  no 


ON  THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS,         45 

monstrous  example  of  oppression,  a  clan  resembled 
a  large  family  closely  knit  together  by  mutual 
interest  and  affection,  and  all  looking  up  to  their 
chief  with  reverence  and  duty.  Him  they  were 
bound  to  follow  to  battle,  for  him  they  were  to  risk 
and  sacrifice  life,  and  fame,  and  wealth ;  and  his 
wrongs  they  resented,  and  his  joys  they  shared  with 
the  quick  love  of  children.  And  in  return,  he  was 
to  protect  their  families  and  provide  for  their  support, 
to  decide  their  quarrels,  and  sanction  their  unions ; 
and  to  be  in  word  and  in  deed  the  nursing  parent  of 
his  vassals.  Here  then  are  a  thousand  subjects  for 
minstrelsy,  and  these  furnished  many  a  ballad  and 
many  an  air  of  singular  beauty  and  power,  which 
yet  live  warmly  in  the  memory  of  Scotland,  and 
proudly  in  the  music  of  the  world.  But  previous  to 
the  time  of  Burns,  many  of  the  airs  were  adapted  to 
Gaelic  words,  whose  fame  was  limited  to  a  clan  or  a 
district.  Besides,  many,  even  of  those  songs  which 
had  not  been  sung  to  the  mountain  language, 
possessed  the  peculiar  allusions  we  have  mentioned, 
which  although  giving  to  them  a  deep  interest  to  the 
peasantry  of  the  land,  rendered  them  flat  and  barren 
to  strangers.  Thus  we  shall  find,  even  now,  that 
an  air  which  still  preserves  its  original  thoughts 
and  words  in  parts  of  Scotland,  is  clothed  in  other 
parts,  or  in  other  countries,  in  an  entirely  different 
dress.  Moreover,  although  there  were  many  names 


I 


43        ON  THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS. 

* 

connected  with  the  authorship  of  these  songs,  they 
were  imperfectly  preserved  by  rude  tradition,  or 
limited  in  their  obscure  reputation  ;  there  was  yet  no 
poet  who  could  be  called  emphatically  the  bard  of 
Scotland.  At  length,  in  Robert  Burns  arose  one  who  • 
might  justly  claim  that  appellation,  who  born  from 
the  people,  was  the  poet  of  the  people ;  who  gave  to ' 
their  music  songs  which  being  nature  itself,  were 
fitted  to  find  an  answering  chord  in  every  heart,  and 
whose  fame  not  seen  darkly  through  the  mist  of 
years,  will  be  immortal  as  the  hills  of  Albyn,  and  not 
confined  to  them,  the  property  and  pride  of  the 
universe.  Burns  was  descended  from  humble 
parents  of  scanty  means,  and  little  education  or 
knowledge.  His  first  essays  in  verse  were  made  at 
the  handle  of  the  plough,  and  though  rough  of 
course,  and  unclassical,  displayed  deep  power  of 
language  and  strength  of  feeling.  His  life  and  its 
incidents,  it  is  not  necessary  to  mention.  He  lived, 
and  died  poor  in  pecuniary  matters.  His  haughty 
spirit  of  independence  made  him  often  reckless  of 
his  true  interests,  and  disgusted  sincere  and  long 
suffering  friends ;  while  his  careless  extravagance 
would  have  kept  him  in  poverty,  if  he  had  inherited 
immense  wealth.  But  we  are  not  to  try  or  judge  a 
mind  and  heart  like  his,  by  the  rules  of  worldly 
prudence.  His  thoughts  and  impulses  were  the 
same ;  his  heart  and  mind,  right  or  wrong,  were  never 

~* 


BURNS. 


ON    THE    POETRY    OF    BURNS.  47 

* 

separate.  He  could  not  reason  coldly  on  a  subject, 
or  he  acted  without  reasoning.  Wherever  his 
Belings  prompted,  his  arguments  followed;  and  are 
ve  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  creature  of  impulse  and 
iircumstance,  and  expect  to  find  his  every  action 
•emulated  by  the  common  caution  of  every  day 
ninds?  If  we  are  to  do  this,  we  must,  in  justice, 
consent  to  forfeit  the  delights  of  song,  the  raptures  of 
genius,  the  extended  Teachings  of  superior  intellects ; 
we  must  lose  the  fancy  of  Collins,  the  promise  of 
Z^hatterton,  the  English  sweetness  of  Goldsmith,  the 
.plendid  blazing  touches  of  Byron,  the  image  of 
lature  and  beauty  in  Burns.  I  look  upon  these 
nen,  as  God  has  made  them,  foolish,  even  beyond 
mman  folly,  but  wise  almost  with  the  wisdom  of 
he  Deity.  I  recognize  in  them,  the  remains  of  that 
earlier  man  who  stood  upon  the  subject  earth,  and 
ret  held  converse  with  Seraphim  and  Cherubim ; 
)ut  only  the  remains,  for  even  while  I  worship  the 
splendid  ruins,  I  lament  the  wreck  and  symbols  of 
he  fall. 

But  our  business  at  present  is  with  the  poetry  of 
Burns,  and  to  that  we  shall  return.  He  was,  we 
lave  said,  the  poet  of  the  people.  The  Scotch  have, 
Derhaps,  a  stronger  national  character  than  any 
)ther  people,  and  this  character  pervades  the  whole 
country.  The  poet  of  one  part  of  the  land,  and 
especially  such  an  one  as  Burns,  imbued  with  all 


**  ON    THE    POETRY    OP    BURNS. 

• 

their  prejudices,  and  clothing  their  prevailing  pas 
sions  with  the  magic  of  his  verse,  soon  became  the 
idol  of  Scotland.  Next  to  Shakspeare,  I  do  not 
know  a  man  whose  reputation  is  so  enviable  as  that 
of  Burns.  His  songs  are  known  and  sung  where 
printing  could  not  reach,  or  would  not  be  of  use. 
Every  farm  and  cot,  every  field  and  hill,  every  vale 
and  rock,  echo  to  his  strains  of  love ;  but,  beyond 
this,  they  reach  every  heart  in  every  country  ;  they 
are  freshly  remembered  when  the  more  showy 
efforts  of  great  composers  have  been  admired,  mur 
dered,  and  forgotten  ;  they  are  the  delight  of  palace 
and  parlor,  and  preserve  a  living  place  in  the  affec 
tions  of  every  man  whose  soul  is  open  to  melody  or 
taste.  We  have  spoken  of  his  first  efforts  as  being 
rough  but  powerful ;  but  a  circumstance,  the  com 
mon  incident  of  every  life,  produced  in  him  conse 
quences  such  as  few  men  could  feel.  He  fell  deeply 
and  passionately  in  love  with  a  young  girl  in  his| 
neighborhood,  of  low  extraction  and  endowments ; 
but  if  we  may  judge  from  her  power  over  him,  of 
extraordinary  natural  qualities.  Whenever  he 
speaks  of  her,  his  tenderness  and  purity  are  wonder 
ful,  and  we  might  fancy  them  the  productions  of  a 
scholar,  did  they  not  possess  a  grace  beyond  the 
proudest  rules  of  art ;  and  after  her  death,  his 
lamentations  for  her,  his  cherishing  of  her  memory, 
his  recollections  of  her  gentle  love,  and  the  tokens 


ON  THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS.         49 

they  exchanged,  are  expressed  in  language  to  which 
verse  could  add  no  poetry.     The  stanzas  beginning, 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 
That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 

embody  the  essence  of  all  the  tenderness  that  broken 
hearted  love  could  feel,  and  the  substance  of  all  the 
impassioned  elegies  that  ever  were  written.  It  is 
singular  fact,  which  we  may  remark  here,  that 
whenever  he  rises  into  great  beauty  of  song,  his 
thoughts  are  expressed  in  pure  and  simple  English, 
while  his  more  homely,  but  not  less  touching 
passages  are  dashed  with  the  language  and  idioms 
of  his  country.  Thus,  for  instance,  when  he  soars 
in  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  into  something  of 
sublimity,  he  breaks  out— 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  j 
"  Hope  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days, 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
JNo  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

We  have  spoken  of  his  love  songs.  It  is  sufficient 
to  say  that  they  are  the  finest  in  the  language. 
They  form  a  collection  from  which  true  love  for 
ages  may  draw  its  images,  and  to  whose  notes  it 

5 


50         ON  THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS. 

will  assuredly  echo.  His  humor  was  uncommonly 
rich  and  peculiarly  Scottish  :  it  consists  part  of  it  in 
attacks  on  the  clergy,  one  or  two  political  satires, 
and  some  local  productions.  But  his  greatest  work 
in  this  line  is  his  Tarn  O'Shanter  ;  a  poem,  which  for 
natural  wit,  graceful  narrative,  and  eloquent  touches 
of  reflection,  is  unrivalled.  His  description  of  the 
inn,  the  landlady,  the  rising  joys  of  the  bacchanals, 
Tarn's  wit,  and  the  laughing  chorus  of  wretches  as 
hen-pecked  as  himself,  the  chase  of  the  hags  and  the 
hair  breadth  'scape  ;  all  are  before  us  in  living  colors. 
One  of  his  happiest  works  is  a  medley,  which 
displays  the  versatility  of  his  genius  in  striking  relief, 
together  with  the  looseness  of  his  morality.  It 
represents  a  joyous  collection  of  beggars  assembled 
at  a  frolic,  who  sing  their  songs  in  a  wild  and  lawless 
spirit  of  enjoyment.  The  first  is  the  song  of  a 
soldier,  who,  like  a  worn  out  steed,  is  yet  ready  to 
prick  up  his  ears  at  "  the  sound  of  the  drum ;"  and 
among  the  remainder,  strange  to  say,  is  that  delight 
ful  music,  |-^ 

I 

A  highland  lad  my  love  was  born, 
The  lowland  laws  he  held  in  scorn.^ 

To  show  his  graphic  powers  of  describing,  take 

''this  one  verse   from  the  poem.     Imagine  the  jolly 

beggars  at  the  pitch  of  revel  and  rapture,  and  the 


ON  THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS.         5i 

chief  called   on   to  swell  the  merriment,  and  then 

read  the  following  four  lines— 

i 

Then  rising  rejoicing 
Between  his  two  Deborah's, 
Look'd  round  him  and  found  'em 
Impatient  for  the  chorus. 

It  is  a  picture  worthy  of  Burns  to  conceive,  and 
Teniers  or  Wilkie  to  express  on  canvass. 

The  only  remaining  characteristic  we  shall  speak 
of,  is    his  devoted  patriotism  and   proud  indepen 
dence.     He  was  distinguished  always  for  the  latter 
quality,  in  every  period  of  his  life ;  and  even  when 
worn  down  by  disease,  his  eye  dimmed,  his  spirit 
broken,   his   energy  gone,  he   asked  his   publisher 
for  money,  it  was  with  an  air  of  one  who  claimed 
a  right  and  conferred  an  honor.     He   loved   Scot 
land  as  a  Scotchman  always  loves  her,  with  pure, 
unaltered,  undivided   affection.     He  was   her   own 
poet  in  every  respect ;  he  sang  of  her  victories  :  and 
"  Scotts  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,"  would  animate 
her  sons  even  in  defeat;  of  love,  and  the  gentle 
swain  tells  the  self-same  tale  to  his  mistress  in  the 
very  words  of  Burns ;  of  her  scenes  of  mirth,  and  his 
strains  enliven  many  a  rainy  night,  and  make  many 
an   honest  Tarn,  "fou  and  unco'  happy."     Those 
who  wish  to  see  this  spirit  of  independence,  must 
read  his  letters,  and  they  breathe  it  in  every  word, 


. 

52        ON  THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS. 

while  his  poems  afford  a  noble  marriage  of  high 
thoughts  with  homely  and  yet  beautiful  rhyme  : 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty, 
Who  hangs  his  head  and  a'  that  ; 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
And  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that. 

These  then  were  his  three  great  characteristics  :  his 
descriptions  of  love  in  all  its  shapes,  his  fund  of 
original  humor,  and  his  high-hearted  and  manly 
feelings.  These  are  the  qualities  which  endear  him 
beyond  expression  to  his  countrymen,  and  make 
him  the  property  of  the  world.  We  are  not  to  look 
in  Burns  for  long  and  great  conceptions,  for  not 
withstanding1  Doctor  Johnson's  estimate  of  genius, 
Bums  could  no  more  have  written  an  epic,  than 
Johnson  could  write  poetry  ;  and  for  the  same  reason, 
it  was  not  in  him.  But  in  his  peculiar  and  difficult 
walk  he  stands  alone.  Moore  resembles  him  in 
many  points  :  in  his  love  for  music,  in  his  humor. 
in  his  patriotism  and  independence  ;  but  in  all  the 
higher  qualities  of  song  writing,  he  sinks  far  below 
him.  He  is  very  graceful,  and  aboufids  in  beautiful 
conceits  ;  such  as  a  man  of  fine  imagination  would 
utter  when  he  was  not  in  love.  Burns  on  the 
contrary  sings  a  song  whose  every  note  is  nature, 
and  every  feeling  deep,  intense,  and  absorbing  love. 
Moore  is  a  voluptuary  —  he  revels  with  Eastern 
,  is  lulled  by  the  waters  of  Eden,  and  dreams 


ON    THE    POETRY    OF    BURNS.  53 

of  dark-eyed  houris  ;  Burns  is  a  simple  Scottish 
youth,  full  of  passion,  breathing  his  sighs  of  every 

day  occurrence,  and  telling  „ 

| 

His  shepherd  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Moore  delights  in  splendid  imagery  and  corres 
ponding  language ;  Burns  touches  with  a  single 
simple  phrase,  a  single  simple  chord,  and  it  stirs  the 
whole  soul  with  the  thrill  of  affection.  Moore's 
verse  is  the  dulcet  eloquence  of  a  practised  flute, 
rolling  delicious  volumes  of  sound ;  Burns  is  the 
warbling  of  the  bird  in  his  native  wilderness  of 
boughs ; 

The  linnet  in  simplicity, 

In  tenderness  the  dove, 

But  more  than  all  beside,  was  he 

The  nightingale  in  love. 

We  have  spoken  of  his  enviable  popularity ;  and  if 
to  be  enshrined  in  the  heart  of  a  whole  people,  to 
be  claimed  and  recognized  as  their  poet,  to  hold  in 
subjection  and  *way  at  will  their  prejudices  and 
passions,  to  have  one's  memory  reverenced  to 
idolatry,  and  one's  name  inscribed  first  on  the  roll 
which  they  have  destined  to  immortality,  is  enviable 
popularity,  Robert  Burns  may  challenge  the  world 
to  display  a  prouder  or  a  purer  one. 


M  nccc  xxvni. 


*# 


ON    THE 


MISSION    TO    PANAMA 


!#,.- 


</ 


' 


ON    THE    MISSION    TO    PANAMA. 


A.S  this  is  a  question  which  occupies  the  present 
ittention  of  the  literary  world,  and  has  been  ably 
md  eloquently  canvassed  on  the  floor  of  our 
lational  legislature,  we  shall  consider  it  not  unbe 
coming  to  offer  a  few  desultory  remarks  on  its 
general  merits.  The  principal  objection  urged  in 
he  negative,  is  drawn  from  the  wise  and  emphatic 
idmonition  of  the  first  president  of  our  union,  and 
he  first  man  of  his  time.  In  the  last  legacy  of  his 
ove  and  care  for  our  future  interests,  he  exhorts  us 
o  keep  aloof  from  "  entangling  alliances."  Faithful 
,0  this  admonition,  if  the  object  of  the  proposed 
hvitation  were  to  pledge  the  people  of  these  United 
States  to  any  particular  set  of  measures,  or  to  the 
support  of  any  political  crusade,  it  would  well 
oecome  our  statesmen  to  keep  aloof.  We  will  go 
iurther.  If  its  object  or  effect  would  be  to  fetter  us 
n  any  wise,  to  prevent  that  perfect  freedom  which 
we  now  enjoy  and  exercise  in  our  choice  of 

1 


58 


ON    THE    MISSION    TO    PANAMA. 

expedients  at  home,  or  in  our  conduct  with  foreign 
nations,  it  would  well  become  them  to  beware ;  but 
unless  these  objects  and  this  effect  shall  be  proved 
to  us,  we  shall  continue  to  wish  for  its  acceptance. 
As  far  as  the  discussion  has  proceeded,  what  are 
the  proofs  ?  No  alliances  are  exhibited,  no  entan 
glements  demanded.  The  invitation3  if  we  under 
stand  it  aright,  is  general.  We  are  requested  to 
send  representatives  to  a  congress  to  be  holden 
at  Panama.  How  this  can  be  construed  into  an 
entangling  alliance,  we  cannot  conceive.  But  the 
genius  of  politics  can  and  does.  Its  opponents 
baffled  and  at  fault  by  the  simplicity  of  this  request, 
leaving  the  dry  detail  of  fact,  resort  to  the  more 
fertile  soil  of  conjecture.  They  tell  us  we  shall  be 
entrapped,  inveigled,  seduced  into  a  surrender  of 
our  interests.  They  tell  us,  we  may  perchance 
give  up  our  contentment  al&our  quiet,  without  an 
equivalent,  (for  if  it  be  true,  what  equivalent  can  be 
given,)  and  that  their  opinions  lhay  not  want  the 
authority  and  assistance  of  a  respectable  quotation  ; 
they  bid  us,  in  the  language  of  Washington,  to 
beware  of  "entangling  alliances."  If  this  be  the 
contracted  policy  we  are  to  pursue:  if,  while  we 
feel  safe  for  the  present,  we  are  not  to  forward  that 
cause  which  must  be  our  future  safety ;  we,  and  the 
advocates  of  such  reasoning,  are  not  capable  of 
appreciating  the  blessings  we  enjoy.  The  people  of 


ON    THE    MISSION    TO    PANAMA. 

the  United  States,  are,  in  a  manner,  bound  to  extend 
by  all  honorable  means  consistent  with  their  well 
being,  if  not  to  Europe,  at  least  to  our  brethren  of 
America,  the  rich  privileges  of  independence.     But 
let  us  suppose  for  a  moment,  that  the  purpose  of 
this  congress  be  to  interpret  treaties,  and  to  fix  the 
relation  of  America  with  European  powers  :  is  there 
not  sound  Jpolicy  in  such  a  project  wisely  executed  ? 
The  time  will  come,  we  hope,  when  all  America 
shall   be  firmly  knit  and  cemented  together  by  a 
general  communion  of  interests  and  similarity  of 
feeling,  with  regard  to  the  rest  of  the  world.     Is  not 
this    desirable? — and    if   it    be,   what    can    more 
effectually  tend  to  such  a  result,  than  such  a  con 
gress?     We  do  not  imagine  that  there  will  be  any 
artifice  to  delude  or  ensnare  us.     It  cannot  be  the 
interest  of  the  South*  American  deputies  to  involve 
us  in  difficulties,  the  evil  of  which  will  be  attributed 
to,  and  may  return  upon  them,     But  to  come  back 
to  ourselves.     Are  there  no  injuries  to  be  feared,  if 
we  reject  this   invitation?      Is  our  growing  com 
merce,  viewed  as  it  is  with  the  jealous  eye  of  rivalry 
by  Great  Britain,  nothing?     Is  this  prolific  branch 
of  our  wealth  in  peace,  and  our   safety  in  war; 
this  which  supplies,  invigorates,  and  consumes  our 
agricultural  and  manufacturing  products,  nothing  ? 
Can  there  be  no  mistakes  (laying  aside  evil  motives) 
as  to  our  wants  and  wishes  ? 

V 

II 
* 


ON    THE    MISSION    TO    PANAMA. 


Again,  on  the  general  ground.  Do  we  not,  by 
our  rejection,  virtually  say,  to  all  intents  and  pur 
poses,  we  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  you  —  we  are 
afraid  of  you  —  we  wish  no  communion  in  your 
fortunes  —  we  care  not  for  your  friendship  or  your* 
enmity?  And  is  this  the  language  which  should 
come  from  the  ^publics  of  North,  to  the  republics 
of  South  America?  We  think  not,  wefhope  not. 
We  hope  that  a  more  liberal  spirit  will  prevail  : 
that  the  offer  freely  and  frankly  made,  will  be  freely 
and  frankly  accepted;  that  our  delegates  will  be 
able  and  upright  men  ;  that  they  will  be  instructed, 
not,  when  they  are  called  on  to  join  in  any  judi 
cious  act,  to  raise  the  watchword  of  "entangling 
alliances  ;"  but  that  such  a  .spirit  of  friendship 
and  union  will  be  cultivated,  as  will  make  both 
nations,  if  they  should  have  to  contend  with  any 
foreign  power,  not  only  possibly  formidable,  but 
certainly  triumphant.  But  turning  from  these  con 
siderations  of  its  expediency  to  itself  —  what  noble 
events  would  attend  the  formation,  and  mark  the 
*  proceedings  of  such  a  congress,  if  it  should  be 
rightly  and  temperately  conducted?  Then  would 
be  presented  a  spectacle,  the  moral  sublimity  of 
which  would  find  no  parallel  in  all  the  records  of 
all  the  assemblies  in  the  world.  Our  continent, 
which  has  been  the  blessed  means  of  spreading  the 
desire  for  rational  freedom,  against  which  neither 


ON    THE    MISSION    TO    PANAMA. 

principalities  nor  powers  shall  prevail — would  then 
consummate  it£  work.  In  that  assembly,  which 
would  be  a  meeting,  not  of  kings  and  satraps  to 
assert  the  claims  of  a  family,  but  of  men  to  vindicate 
Pthe  rights  of  man ;  which  would  be,  not  a  holy 
alliance  to  settle  the  inheritance  of  a  legitimate 
prince,  to  the  crimes  and  follies  of  a  legitimate 
i throne;  |^it  the  people  of  a  whole  hemisphere, 
declaring  that  hemisphere,  by  the  mouths  of  their 
delegates  and  ministers,  free,  sovereign,  and  indepen 
dent — in  that  assembly  would  their  labors  be 
finished.  There  would  be  no  sectional  disputes ; — no 
local  prejudices.  It  would  be  the  legislature,  not  of 
South,  or  of  North  America — not  calculating  for  the 
petty  details  of  counties,  or  of  townships,  and  cities, 
and  states,  and  nations ;  but  the  legislature  of  the 
continent  of  America,  declaring  for  the  inhabitants 
of  that  continent,  of  every  variety  of  climate  and 
of  physical  and  mental  complexions,  their  relative 
rights  and  duties.  The  critics  of  Europe  might 
then  inquire,  who  reads  an  American  book,  or 
looks  on  an  American  edifice?  We  could  then 
'show  them  the  records  of  such  a  congress  as  a  reply 
to  their  first  sneer,  and  turn  them,  not  to  pyra 
mids,  that  mark  arid  mock  the  vanity  of  princes, 
and  the  servitude  of  the  people  ;  not  to  columns 
reared  by  the  spoils  of  wasted  provinces,  to  comme 
morate  terrible  victories — but  to  the  smiling  face  of  a 


ON    THE    MISSION    TO    PANAMA. 

vast  extent  of  territory,  purified  by  American  labor, 
happy  through  American  freedom:  an  illustrious, 
and  we  would  hope,  an  eternal  monument  of  both. 


• 


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ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY 


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. 
ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY. 


THE  present  state  of  literary  exertion  is  certainly 
presented  to  us  in  a  singular  aspect.  There  is  an 
astonishing  diffusion  of  knowledge  among  the 
middling  and  lower  classes  of  society.  The  school 
master  (to  use  the  often  quoted  sentence  of  Brough 
am)  is  abroad  in  the  land,  and  the  rays  of  science 
are  penetrating  into  the  hovels  of  the  poor  and  the 
ignorant,  with  an  influence  as  warm,  and  almost  as 
rapid,  as  the  light  of  the  natural  sun  exerts  on  the 
shadows  of  the  morning  twilight.  This  influence 
may  be  ridiculed  and  denounced  by  the  aristocratic 
slaves  of  legitimate  opinions  ;  they  may  laugh  at  the 
excesses  of  those  who  feel,  for  the  first  time,  the 
worth  and  the  strength  of  their  own  minds  ;  but  the 
day  is  coming,  and  that  quickly,  when  these  would- 
be  autocrats  in  the  realms  of  learning  shall  find*  the 
strength  of  their  efforts  whom  knowledge  will  make 
free,  when  the  puny  powers  which  think  to  stop  the 
triumphal  car  shall  be  crushed  beneath  its  wheels, 


«6  ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY. 

and  like  the  original  elder  enemies  of  man,  shall 
curse  while  they  worship,  and  tremble  while  they 
believe.  While,  however,  we  rejoice  at  the  glorious 
prospect,  and  prophesy  that  the  present  generation 
is  sowing  the  seed  of  a.  rich,  moral,  and  mental 
harvest,  we  must  be  allowed  to  offer  a  few 
preliminary  observations  on  the  question :  whether 
this  increase  will  tend  to  the  production  of  great 
literary  works.  The  argument  in  favor  of  the 
affirmative,  is  extremely  forcible.  It  is  true,  that 
the  advance  of  knowledge  will  increase  the  call  for 
books,  and  their  value  when  obtained.  But  un 
fortunately,  we  do  not  think,  that  in  literature,,  the 
supply  will  always  be  ready  for  the  demand. 
Take,  for  instance,  our  own  time.  Let  us  cast  our 
eye  over  the  wide  extent  of  Great  Britain,  and  our 
own  country,  with  their  vast  reading  population, 
and  then  ask  for  the  great  literary  productions  to 
satisfy  their  cravings.  We.  do  not  speak  now  of  the 
useful  arts ;  in  these  the  age  is  fruitful ;  but  we  ask, 
where  are  our  epics  and  our  dramas.  Our  plain 
ansAver  must  be  this.  Our  epics  are  not,  except  we 
take  Wordsworth,  and  Southey,  and  Barlow,  as 
successors  to  the  bard  of  seven  cities,  and  the  swan 
of  Mantua,  and  our  own  Milton ;  and  as  for  the 
drama,  we  ask  pardon  of  Shakspeare  and  Fletcher, 
and  Ben  Jonson,  while  we  compare  them  with  the 
rant  of  Maturin,  and  the  bashful  failures  of  Lord 


I 


ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY.  67 

Byron.     The   fact  is,  although  we  have  not  ma 
turely  considered  the  subject,  we  are  half  inclined 
ito  think,  that  the  different  aspects  which  literature 
1  formerly  presented  from  that  which  it  now  exhibits, 
(resemble  the  difference  between  a  country,  whose 
.general  appearance  is  barren,  but  its  mountainous 
iparts  sparkling  with  gold,   "flaming  as  rival  to  its 
sire,  the  sun,"  and  the  broad  level  savanna,  waving 
with  rich  grain,  but  presenting  fewer  eminences  to 
'the  eye.     And  yet  we  should  not  complain  of  this 
i  result.     We  should  be  willing,  that  the  luxuries  of 
literature  should  be  sacrificed  to  the  diffusion  of  its 
cheaper  comforts.     We  have,  however,  sadly  wan 
dered  from  our  original  subject,  which  was  the  very 
i  fertile  one  of  English  Comedy,  and  the  result  of  our 
meditations  may  be  shortly  comprised  in  the  remark, 
!that  it  has  exceedingly  degenerated.     The  cause  of 
ithis  degeneracy  is  said  -to  be  chargeable  to  the  age. 
i  But  we  do  not  feel  so  much  faith  in  this  assertion  as 
*do  those  who  are  interested  to  believe  it.     Men  are 
?  the  same  in  all  times ;  and  human  nature  is  never 
i  finely  displayed  without  applause.     Are  we  to  be 
told,  or  can  we  believe,  that  if  Shakspeare  or  Ben 
Jonson  were  now  to  arise,  and  lay  open  the  hidden 
secrets  of  the  heart,  their  works  would  be  delivered 
to   empty    benches?     Are   we    to   think  that   our 
intellects  are  too  gross  to  enjoy  the  wit  of  Benedict, 
and  the  moralizing  of  Jaques,  and  the  poetry  of  The 


68  ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream?  And  that  our  vulgar 
intellects  can  receive  no  enjoyment,  but  from 
painted  shows  and  tinsel  mockeries  of  state  and 
splendor  ?  We  do  not  believe  it.  The  fault  is  not 
in  the  buyers,  but  the  sellers.  We  ask  for  the 
delights  of  mind,  and  they  tickle  us  with  the 
fooleries  of  sense ;  we  ask  for  that  which  shall 
improve  the  heart,  and  make  a  lasting  impression 
on  our  conduct,  and  they  give  us  only  what  is 
calculated  to  gratify  "the  gaping  eye  of  idiot 
wonder ;"  we  ask  for  the  nutriment  to  support, 
and  the  business  to  occupy  a  man,  and  they  thrust 
upon  us  the  sugar-plums  and  the  rattle  of  a  child. 
We  are  not  to  be  told  that  all  the  flowers  are 
gathered,  and  that  there  can  be  no  room  for 
originality.  Can  any  man,  who  knows  the  infinite 
variety  which  mankind  affords  for  wholesome  satire? 
believe  this?  We  answer,  no.  Why  did  not 
Sheridan  make  the  same  objection,  and  throw  by  his 
pen.  But  he  ventured  into  the  field,  and  success 
fully  pointed  the  finger  of  public  scorn  at  the  vices 
and  follies  of  his  day.  Since  his  time,  we  have 
gradually  grown  worse,  and  now,  forsooth,  satire 
sleeps  and  folly  stalks  unblushingly  through  the 
land.  While  we  thus  mourn  over  the  decline  of 
English  Comedy ;  it  is  delightful  to  draw  upon  its  old 
stores  for  present  use,  and  turn  to  those  writers  who 

have  made  it  illustrious  and  immortal.     The  first 

w  ' 


*        .# 


ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY.  69 

we  shall  notice  is  Shakspeare.  His  comedies  are 
remarkable  for  being  comedies  in  the  true  sense  of 
the  word.  They  are  not  mere  broad  farces,  as  most 
of  our  modern  comedies  are ;  but  unite  pathos 
and  poetry  with  exquisite  wit  and  humor  to  a 
degree  never  before  equalled.  They  are  wonderful 
also  in  the  generality  of  their  characters.  There 
are  but  two  or  three  of  these  throughout  his 
works,  which  are  individualized,  strictly  speak 
ing:  all  bear  the  general  stamp  of  a  particular 
class  of  men,  and  each  class  exists  now  as  it  did 
then,  so  that  the  stronger  points  of  his  satire  are 
as  striking  in  their  present  as  in  their  former  appli 
cation.  Take,  for  instance,  the  character  of  Bene 
dict,  and  no  man  has  seen  too  little  of  human 
nature  to  know  that  he  has  met  with  many  having 
the  same  general  characteristics.  He  has  not  indeed 
encountered  one  possessing  the  quantity  or  quality 
of  his  wit ;  but  he  has  seen  the  good-looking  man 
who  professes  himself  a  "tyrant  of  the  sex,"  and 
rails  at  their  tongue,  and  is  delicate  in  his  choice  of 
"household  dispositions,"  and  swears  and  talks 
himself  into  a  belief  that  he  will  sooner  be  hung 
than  married,  and  then,  "  most  lame  and  impotent 
conclusion,"  falls  in  love  with  the  first  who  dotes 
upon  his  precious  person.  These  are  marks  which 
nature  has  written  on  man  as  if  almost  to  confirm 
the  accurate  picturing  of  Shakspeare.  The  wit  of 


f 


70  ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY. 

Shakspeare  is  wit  in  the  old  and  true  sense  of  the 
word,  one  of  the  brightest  exertions  of  intellect,  and 
distinct  from  that  humor  which  we  find  in  Fat 
Jack,  in  Dogberry,  in  the  Clown  in  As  You  Like 
It,  in  Toby  and  Ague-cheek.  Do  we  look  for  pure, 
classical,  deep-tho lighted  wit,  let  us  moralize  with 
Jaques,  let  us  steal  behind  him  as  he  lies  along 

.-I 

"Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  a  brook  that  brawls  along  the  wood," 

and  laugh  and  weep  by  turns,  at  the  follies  and 
crimes  of  mankind.  Let  us  bewail  with  Benedict 
the  hapless  fate  of  Claudio,  who  once  loved  "the 
music  of  drum  and  fife,"  but  has  changed  to  the  soft 
wooing  "  of  the  pipe  and  tabor ;"  or  with  Claudio  in 
turn,  conclude  from  Benedict's  "brushing  his  hat 
of  a  morning,"  "  that  the  sweet  youth  is  in  love  ;"  or 
jest  with  Mercutio,  whose  wit,  too  exquisite  for  a  long 
life,  makes  its  short  day  a  blaze  of  fancy,  and 
expires  in  mirth  and  merriment.  The  poetry  of 
his  comedies  is  scarcely  exceeded  in  his  tragedies, 
and  of  course  is  not  equalled  by  any  thing  else  in 
the  language.  The  names  of  Rosalind  and  Yiola 
will  awaken  in  every  breast  recollections  of  sweet 
words  and  noble  thoughts,  of  friendship  and  love, 
and  all  the  pure  affections,  joyous  and  grievous  ; 
and  the  smile  that  dimples  and  the  woe  that  weeps, 
are  so  delightfully  mingled,  that  we  are  as  sorry  *t> 

. 


ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY.  71 

part  with  his  sadness  as  we  are  glad  to  meet  with 
his  mirth.  Next  to  Shakspeare  stands  Jonson,  a 
man  imbued  with  classical  learning,  and  full  of  its 
best  spirit.  His  Volpone  is  second  only  to  Shaks 
peare,  combining  musical  numbers  and  fine  poetry 
with  searching  wit.  It  shows  the  influence  of 
%varice,  sacrificing  all  the  emotions  of  the  heart  at 
the  altar  of  mammon.  The  father  destroys  his  son, 
the  husband  tempts  the  chastity  of  his  wife,  the 
wife  is  ready  to  disgrace  her  husband,  and  all  these 
things  are  the  fruits  of  the  "  sacred  lust  of  gold."  It 
reads  to  us  a  deep  lesson  on  the  baseness  of  the 
heart,  and  the  abandonment  of  the  principles, 
induced  by  that  passion  which  makes  a  man  live 
like  a  slave,  die  like  a  fool,  be  buried  without  an 
affection  to  hallow  his  grave,  and  remembered  for 
the  hatred  of  those  he  injured,  and  the  contempt  of 
those  he  cherished.  With  more  poetry  and  less 
powerful  satire  than  Jonson,  came  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher.  Let  all  who  admire  Milton's  Comus  read 
in  Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess,  the  original 
sources  of  many  of  his  finest  thoughts  and  sweetest 
expressions.  The  comedies  of  these  two  writers  are 
rich  fountains  of  delight  to  one  who  loves  to  drink 
of  the  "wells  of  English  undefiled." 

There  is  much  bombast  scattered  throughout 
their  works  •  but  there  is  also  so  much  sweetness,  so 
much  of  the  true  music  of  words,  so  many  delightful 


72  ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY. 

touches,  and  so  much  pure  wit,  that  we  can  par 
don  all  their  faults  while  we  enjoy  their  beauties, 
and  love  the  beauties  even  while  we  lament  the  j 
faults.  Of  their  numerous  works,  there  is  only  one 
which  really  keeps  the  stage ;  but  there  are  others 
not  inferior  to  it.  The  Chances,  and  the  Two 
Noble  Kinsmen,  are  two  splendid  productions,  an 
equal  to  their  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife,  as 
great  a  favorite  as  is  the  last.  Their  satire  is  more 
local,  and  does  not  reach  so  far,  as  that  of  their 
gifted  predecessors ;  still  each  character,  though  it 
may  not  apply  so  well  to  its  modern  antitype,  is 
drawn  with  a  fidelity  to  itself,  a  keeping  in  all  its 
parts,  a  perfect  consistency  throughout,  which 
scarcely  yields,  even  to  the  unquestioned  master 
spirits  of  the  old  drama.  Next  in  rank  to  these,  is 
Massinger.  The  play  by  which  he  is  best  known, 
The  Fatal  Dowry,  is  in  our  humble  judgment,  far 
inferior  in  merit  to  some  others  of  his  writings. 
The  City  Madam,  for  instance,  has  one  character  in 
it  portrayed  alone  with  power  enough  to  stamp  him 
with  immortality,  and  that  is  the  character  of  Luke. 
He  is  a  man  broken  down  by  extravagance,  and 
living  on  the  bounty  of  a  rich  brother,  who  is 
introduced  (in  the  scene  where  Luke  is  first  promi 
nently  painted)  as  a  hard-hearted  and  unfeeling 
creditor.  Luke  stands  forth  as  the  advocate  of  the 
oppressed  debtors,  to  plead  for  mercy  and  compassion, 

*. 


ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY.  73 

and  his  reasons  are  so  wise,  so  true,  so  eloquent,  and 
so  persuasive,  as  to  wring  a  reluctant  reprieve.  It 
is  indeed  morality,  adorned  with  all  the  enforce 
ments  of  poetry,  and  with  an  enthusiasm  that  defies 
argument,  and  chains  us  in  conviction.  In  the 

j  next  pointed  situation,  we  see  the  humble  brother  a 
slave  to  the  caprices  of  the  wife  of  his  rich  relative, 
fawning  on  both,  and  almost  worshiping  their 
wealth.  In  the  next,  there  is  a  change;  Luke 
presumes  his  brother  to  be  dead,  and  we  find  him 

1  the  self-supposed  heir  of  an  immense  estate,  hugging 
himself  on  his  wealth,  and  this  scene  opens  with  his 
splendid  soliloquy  on  -the  blessings  of  the  miser. 
The  natural  result  of  this  change,  is,  that  he 
becomes  a  tyrant  to  his  brother's  supposed  widow 
and  orphan  children;  and  the  "strange  eventful 
history"  is  concluded  by  his  brother's  return,  and 
his  merited  punishment.  The  soliloquy  we  have 
mentioned,  is  similar,  but  superior  to  Ben  Jonson's 
in  the  opening  of  Yolpone ;  but  the  character  of  a 
parasite  in  that  play  is  superior  even  to  Massin- 
ger's.  We  recommend  this  play  to  all  who  have 
appreciated  the  Fata]  Dowry,  and  love  their 
native  language.  Ford,  who  was  before  Massinger 
in  order  of  time,  is  the  last  we  shall  notice  of 
the  older  dramatists,  His  Lover's  Melancholy 
is  worthy  of  the  age,  and  higher  praise  can  we 
not  bestow;  his  Broken  Heart  is  also  exquisitely 


71  ON    ENGLISH    COMEDY. 

affecting,  and  in  some  passages,  Ford  stands  not 
dishonored  beside  those,  whose  names  we  have  so 
unworthily  mentioned.  Thus  much  for  the  older 
dramatists,  a  body  of  men  before  whose  genius 
all  modern  writers  sink  into  comparative" littleness; 
compared  with  whose  sublimity  and  wit,  Milton 
alone  can  stand  the  test.  To  them  may  we  award 
the  name  of  founders  of  our  tongue,  and  fathers  of 
our  drama.  To  them  we  should  refer  a  foreigner 
acquainted  with  our  language,  as  the  sovereigns  of 
our  comic  verse,  and  feel  a  noble  pride  in  telling 
him  that  they  represent  the  majesty  of  our  dramatic 
literature.  To  them,  the  comic  muse  hath  vouch- 4 
safed  her  choicest  inspiration,  and  when  they  pour 
it  forth  we  admire,  and  love,  and  worship  at  their  j 
bidding. 


M  DCCC  XXVIII. 


POETICAL    PIECES 


' 


• 


HE      LOST      SHIP. 


THE  gallant  ship  rode  far  and  fast 

Upon  her  own  blue  wave  : 
That  ship  through  sun  and  gale  had  past 

Above  full  many  a  grave  ; 
Where  forms  as  fair,  and  hearts  as  warm. 
Had  sunk  beneath  the  conquering  storm, 

And  might  was  vain  to  save. 

Through  hurricane  and  tempest  loud, 
Through  mountain  seas  on  high,. 

That  gallant  ship  had  safely  ploughed. 
And  dared  the  darkening  sky. 

Trembling  had  changed  to  firmness  ;  tears, 

Called  forth  by  mean  or  manly  fears, 
Had  dried  in  many  an  eye  ; 

When  she  had  dashed  o'er  hill  and  vale. 
And  bade  the  breakers  roar 

„ 


73  THE    LOST    SHIP. 

And  vainly  rager  while  her  proud  sail 

Was  bellying  for  the  shore  ; 
But  now  the  light  she  loved  to  hail, 
The  wild  storm  spirits'  wrathful  wail,  ^ 

She  feels,  defies  no  more. 

She  hath  gone  down  and  carried  there, 

To  ocean's  coral  cells, 
The  young,  the  high  endowed,  the  fair, 

All  that  with  genius  dwells  ; 
Hearts  that  were  formed  to  do  and  dare, 
Yet  doomed  to  die  and  perish,  where 

No  stone  their  story  tells. 

She  hath  gone  down ;  the  troubled  sea 
Rolls  its  blue  waves  above  them  yet ; 

For  whom  the  tear  flowed  fast  and  free, 

For  whom  bright  cheeks  were  pale  and  wet 

And  all  is  vain — proud  death  !  with  thee, 

All  earthly  strength  is  mockery 
When  thou  and  man  have  met. 

She  hath  gone  down ;  and  buried  deep, 

Those  glorious  forms  are  lying, 
Hushed  by  the  billows'  voice  to  sleep. 

Nor  waked  by  mortal  sighing, 
Nor  prayers  could  shield,  nor  tears  could  keep 
Such  forms  from  death  ;  these  ye  may  weep, 


9 
THE    LOST    SHIP. 

These;  not  their  souls,  for  they  have  fled, 
Risen  from  mansions  of  the  dead, 
To  realms  of  life  undying, 

To  wait,  till,  buried  hosts  shall  wake, 

Roused  by  His  coming  whose  bowed  head 
Bade  death  from  his  dark  cell  outbreak, 

When  gaped  the  speechless  earth  for  fear, 
And  burst  the  temple's  holy  vail ; 

And  priests  and  people  quaked  to  hear, 
And  lips  and  cheeks  grew  deadly  pale, 

With  terror  smitten  dread : 
Until,  the  angel  tones  that  spake, 
When  sang  the  morning  stars  on  high, 
Shall  say  to  earth,  "  awake,  awake," 
And  thunder  forth  in  majesty, 

"  Dark  sea,  give  up  thy  dead." 

M  IK- IT  xxv. 

• 


• 
* 


THE     INDIAN 


AWAY,  away  to  forest  shades  ! 

Fly,  fly  with  me  the  haunts  of  men  ! 
I  would  not  give  my  sunlit  glades, 

My  talking  stream,  and  silent  glen, 
For  all  the  pageantry  of  slaves, 
Their  fettered  lives  and  trampled  graves. 

if 

Away  from  wealth  !  our  wampum  strings 
Ask  not  the  toil,  the  woes  of  them, 

From  whom  the  lash,  the  iron  wrings 
The  golden  dross,  the  tear  soiled  gem ; 

Yet  bind  our  hearts  in  the  pure  tie, 

That  gold  or  gems  could  never  buy. 

And  power  !  what  is  it  ye  who  rule 
The  hands  without  the  souls  ?  oh,  ye 

Can  tell,  how  mean  the  tinselled  fool, 
With  all  his  hollow  mockery  ! 

The  slave  of  slaves  who  hate,  yet  bow, 

With  serving  lip,  but  scorning  brow. 


* 


THE    INDIAN.  81 

And  love,  dear  love  !  how  can  they  feel 
The  wild  desire,  the  burning  flame, 

That  thrills  each  pulse  and  bids  us  kneel- 
The  power  of  the  adored  name  ; 

The  glance  that  sins  in  the  met  eye, 

Yet  loved  for  its  idolatry  ! 

They  never  knew  the  perfect  bliss, 

To  clasp  in  the  entwined  bower 
Her  trembling  form,  to  steal  the  kiss 

She  would  deny,  but  hath  not  power  ; 
To  list  that  voice  that  charms  the  grove, 
And  trembles  when  it  tells  of  love. 

Nor  have  they  felt  the  pride,  the  thrill, 
When  bounding  for  the  fated  deer  ; 

O'er  rock  and  sod,  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
The  hunter  flies,  nor  dreams  of  fear, 

And  brings  his  maid  the  evening  prey,lj|t 

To  speak  more  love  than  words  can  say. 

Have  they  in  death  the  sod,  the  stones, 
The  silence  of  the  shading  tree  ; 

Where  glory  decks  the  storied  bones 

Of  him  whose  life,  whose  death  was  free  ; 

And  minstrel  mourns  his  arm  whose  blow 

The  foeman  cowered  and  quailed  below? 


THE    INDIAN. 

No  ;  they  confined  and  fettered,  they 
The  sons  of  sires  to  fame  unknown, 

With  nerveless  hands  and  souls  of  clay, 
Half  life,  half  death,  loathe,  but  live  on  ; 

And  sink  unsung,  ignobly  lie 

In  dark  oblivion's  apathy. 

;i  I 

Poor  fools  !  the  wild  and  mountain  chase, 
Would  rend  their  frail  and  sickly  forms  ; 

But  for  their  God,  how  would  they  face 
Our  bands  of  fire,  our  sons  of  storms  : 

Breasts  that  have  never  recked  of  fears, 

And  eyes  that  leave  to  women,  tears. 

$H  '  .  JBBJH 

They  tell  us  of  their  kings,  who  gave 
To  them  our  wild,  unfettered  shore  ; 
To  them  !  why  let  them  claim  the  wave, 

And  hush  its  everlasting  roar  ! 
VThen  may  we  own  their  sway,  but  hark, 


Our  warriors  never  miss  their  mark. 


;_     j^ 

! 

ing, 


Away,  away  from  such  as  these  ! 

Free  as  the  wild  bird  on  the  wi 
I  see  my  own,  my  loved  green  trees, 

I  hear  our  black-haired  maidens  sing  ; 
I  fly  from  such  a  world  as  this, 
To  rove,  to  love,  to  live  in  bliss  ! 


M  DCCC  XXV. 


TO    A    CHAINED    EAGLE. 


THOU  king  of  birds  !  earth's  meanest  fool  can  laugh 

at  thee,  whose  reign 
Was  far,  far  up,  where  man's  dull  orb  may  gaze 

and  gaze  in  vain ; 
The    thunder's    mark,   the   splintered    rock,   were 

palaces  of  thine, 
Yet  thou  art  here,  thine  eye  is  sad,  and  tears  shall 

sully  mine. 
Thine   were  the   clouds,   their    thick  dark   forms 

pavilioned  thee  about, 
From  whence  like  collied  midnight's  flash,  that  eye 

looked  fiercely  out ; 
Thy  footstool,  earth's  far  summit !  there  thou  sat'st 

to  scorn  the  world, 
Thy  wing  was  bathed  in  God's  own  light ;  alas,  that 

wing  is  furled. 


• 

84  TO    A    CHAINED    EAGLE. 

The  thunder  communes  not  with  thee,  the  light 
ning  passes  by ; 

The  young,  the  free,  the  unfettered  brave,  it  scathes ; 
thou  canst  not  die  !  % 

Nobly  and  proudly  thus  to  die,  to  them  alone  is 
given, 

The  flashing  meteors  of  this  world,  the  chosen  ones 
of  heaven ! 

Oh,  had'st  thou  fallen  in  thy  flight  to  dare  the  rising 
sun, 

Upon    thine   own    proud    battle-field    dying    with 

victory  won ; 
Or  had  thine  eye  grown  dim  with  age,  not  with 

excess  of  light, 
Yielding  to  time  the  triumpher,  yet  braving  him  in    s 

might; 
Or  soaring  up  with  pinions  proud  above  these  walls 

of  space, 
Closed  on  the  sceptred  hand  of  Jove,  thine  own 

appointed  place ; 
Or  winging  downwards  far  away,  where  storms  in 

thunder  break, 
Scorning  the  river's  puny  wave,  spurning  the  un- 

rippled  lake ; 
There,  seated  on  some  mountain  swell,  communing 

with  the  gale, 
Flashed  a  last  lightning  glance  around,  and  di 

without  a  wail : 


TO    A    CHAINED    EAGLE.  83 

But    here,   why  should   such  thoughts   awake,   a 

captive  and  a  slave, 
Thou  canst  not  spring  from  chains  of  earth  into 

thine  own  concave; 
The  pinion  that  hath  borne  thee  once,  is  clipped, 

and  thou  art  here, 
And  thou  couldst  weep,  but  that  thine  eye,  hath 

never  known  a  tear.  ' 
Thou  sittest  in  sullen  silence  here,  'midst  taunts  and 

mockery ; 
Oh,  for  one  glorious  hour,  thou  criest,  one  moment 

of  the  free, 
This  wing  should  spread,  this  eye  once  more,  be 

bright  as  heaven's  own  beam ; 
One  glance,  one  spring,  and  far  away — aye,  'tis  a 

splendid  dream. 
Why  cannot  such  bright  dreams  be  true  ?  the  hopes 

and  joys  of  man, 
Soar  up  to  heaven  as  thou  hast  soared,  yet  die  where 

they  began. 
The  mind  whose  flight  is  far,  must  droop,  its  eye  be 

dim  in  night ; 
Thou  art  that  mind  in  weal  and  woe,  in  darkness 

and  in  light. 
There  was  a  heart  and  eye  like  thine,  the  world 

shall  tell  the  tale, 

For  at  the  kindling  of  that  eye,  his  proudest  foes 
ale; 


86  TO    A    CHAINED    EAGLE. 

Yet  died  he  as  the  veriest  slave,  fettered  in  all  but 

heart, 
Captive,  enchained,  yet  all  unquelled — emblem  of 

him  thou  art. 

:X?     ;' 
M  DCCC  XXV. 


i 


THEFEAST    OF    BELSHAZZAR. 


THE  king  sat  on  his  throne, 

In  gold,  and  gems,  and  purple  pride. 
And  gathered  as  rays  around  the  sun, 

Were  warriors  at  his  side  ; 
The  famed  in  council,  the  foremost  in  field, 
The  tongue  that  could  charm,  and  the  nerve  that 

could  wield, 

Were  called  to  the  royal  feast ; 
And  there  had  the  pride  of  the  victor  displayed, 
The  spoils  of  the  vanquished  and  slave,  and  arrayed 
The  wealth  that  had  bitterly,  bloodily  paid, 
,;-     The  crimes  of  the  glorious  East. 

There  was  beauty  in  that  hall ! 

The  loveliest  forms  and  the  brightest  eyes. 
Lips  whose  kisses  could  never  pall, 

Bosoms  that  throbbed  to  the  youngest  sighs, 
Of  the  first  pure  passion  ;  Oh  !  sweeter  that  kiss, 
That  sigh  in  the  fulness  of  early  bliss, 


8?  THE    FEAST    OF    BELSHAZZAR. 

Than  a  life  of  dallying,  lingering  love  ! 
The  stings  of  this  world  are  forgotten,  one  dream, 
Like  the  blue  summer  sky  in  the  joyous  stream. 
Hangs  over  and  hallows,  and  makes  it  seem 

A  pure  reflection  of  heaven  above. 

* 

There  was  music  in  that  hall ! 
Strains  of  glorious  sound  that  fell, 

On  the  spell-bound  ear  like  the  waterfall, 

With  its  rushing  sheet  and  dancing  swell ; 
The  heaving  heart,  and  the  sparkling  eye, 
Confessed  and  crowned  the  melody 

As  it  sweetly  floated  round ; 
And  the  sigh,  the  sob,  and  the  crimson  flush. 
And  fear's  pale  hue,  and  love's  warm  blush. 
Like  the  proud  sea's  following  surges  rush  ; 

And  the  soul  is  a  slave  to  sound. 


There  was  wine  upon  that  board  ! 

The  goblet  sparkled  bright, 

t 
As  the  rich  red  juice  was  freely  poured, 

With  its  glancing,  bubbling  light ; 
As  it  kissed  the  brim  it  far  outshone 
The    gem  that  was   proudest  where    gems  were 

strown, 

Thick  as  stars  in  the  blue  midnight ; 
They  quaffed,  the  heart  was  glad,  the  eye 


THE   FEAST   OF    BELSHAZZAR. 

Danced  in  its  borrowed  brilliancy, 

And  the  pulse  of  love  grew  warm  and  high 

With  joy  and  passionate  might. 
<f"  '• ''" 

There's  terror  in  that  hall ! 

Gone  is  the  color  from  flushing  cheek — 

There  is  a  spell  on  the  festival  \^. 

Eye  cannot  lighten,  lip  cannot  speak  ; 
Fallen  the  red  goblet,  wine  like  rain, 
Floods  the  cold  marble,  hush'd  the  strain, 

Is  echoed  no  more  by  the  stilly  heart ; 
Silence,  pale  silence,  hath  reared  her  throne, 
Where  sounded  the  revellers'  merry  tone  ; 
The  feast  is  broken,  the  revel  is  done, 

And  yet  they  may  not  part. 

Mark  their  prince's  hurried  breath, 

Quivering  lip,  and  fixed  eye  ; 
He  hath  seen  the  sign,  it  speaks  of  death, 

Of  sceptre  lost,  of  power  gone  by ; 
t  was  not  human,  that  severed  hand, 
It  moved  not,  wrote  not,  at  man's  command — 

It  was  GOD'S  own  prophecy  !  — 
And  now  the  winds  unheeded  moan, 
In  the  halls  of  haughty  Babylon, 
And  the  pilgrim's  footstep  long  and  lone, 
Echoes  His  victory  ! 


M  DCCC  XXV, 


*• 


TO      POMPEII. 

• 


iHfr 

I  ROVE  through  thy  deserted  streets,  inhale 
The  atmosphere  of  centuries  gone  by, 

In  sad  reality  ;  while  ghast  and  pale, 
Around  the  haunts  of  their  mortality, 

Distinct  to  fancy's  sight,  are  gathering  fast, 

"  Their  cerements  burst,"  the  spirits  of  the  past. 

Had  they  but  voices  ;  could  the  buried  speak  ; 

Would  they  not  speak  in  thunder  ?    Italy  ! 
On  thy  degenerate  head  their  wrath  would  wreak 

A  curse,  as  loud  and  deep  as  the  vexed  sea  ; 
The  curse  of  those,  whose  blood  gushed  forth  in 

waves, 
To  free  thy  soil,  thou  heritage  of  slaves  ! 

"  Curse  on  thy  palsied  arm  that  will  not  strike, 
As  struck  our  Brutus  to  the  tyrant's  heart  ! 

Is  there  not  one  among  thy  children,  like 

That  dread  avenger  1  one  whose  blood  will  start, 


• 


• 


TO   POMPEII.  91 

To  think  of  our  old  might !  not  one  to  weep, 
That  Roman  souls  should  in  such  bondage  sleep  ?" 

I  am  a  pilgrim  and  a  stranger,  yet 

Bven  I  can  blush,  can  weep  for  thy  foul  chains  ; 
I  cannot  look  upon  thee,  and  forget 

The  rich  proud  blood  that  fills  thy  recreant  veins  ; 
But  tears  of  shame  and  sorrow  course  my  cheek, 
And  tell  what  words  in  vain  essay  to  speak. 

•*8i*^  ' 
The  eagle  that  embraced  each  hall  and  fane 

Within  the  shadow  of  his  warrior  wing, 
Is  quelled  and  dark :  oh,  ne'er  shall  he  again, 

From  bonds  of  earth  in  his  old  glory  spring, 
Upon  the  cloud  of  conquest  poise  his  form, 
To  raise  and  rule  the  battle's  thunder-storm. 

Where  are  thy  gods  ?  they  who  were  ever  nigh 
To  combat  in  thy  cause,  why  come  they  not 

Clothed  in  the  thunder  of  their  majesty, 
To  glorify  again  each  hallowed  spot 

With  their  proud  presence,  and  to  scourge  in  wrath, 

The  haughty  Christian  from  their  people's  path  ? 

Where  is  high  Jove,  the  cloud-compeller  ?  where, 
The  young  Apollo,  beautiful  in  might ; 

And  she,  the  sea-foam's  seed,  the  very  air 
Grew  odorous  of  love  where  she  did  light ; 


92 


TO    POMPEII. 


And  the  fierce  god  of  armies  ?     Ye  can  say, 
Shrines  of  forgotten  worship,  where  are  they. 

Ye  answer  not,  yet  in  your  echoing  halls 
There  is  a  voice  ;  your  silence  is  not  dumb  ; 

There  is  a  voice ;  louder  than  words,  that  calls 
On  those  who  plume  them  in  their  pride,  to  come. 

And,  'mid  your  trophies  of  divine  decay, 

To  muse  on  pride,  mightier,  yet  passed  away. 

And  from  your  ruins  to  the  mind's  quick  ear, 
It  wisely  says,  what,  though  the  earth  inhume 

All  that  is  earth's  ?  the  soul  can  laugh  at  fear, 
In  new  existence  'mid  destruction's  bloom ; 

And  gain  the  meed,  to  virtue  only  given, 

Glory  on  earth  and  diadems  in  heaven. 


M  DCCC  XXVI. 


»•  5T 
THE    MARTYR. 


IT  was  a  day  of  awe  and  fear. 

And  populous  Rome  had  gathered  then 
In  her  vast  amphitheatre 

The  world's  proud  lords  and  victors  ;  men, 
Or  beasts,  who  came  to  glut  their  eyes 
With  tortures  and  with  agonies. 

4.    j|5lr 
But  he,  the  victim  of  that  day, 

Stood  firm  and  fearless,  not  a  sign 
Of  dread,  did  that  calm  face  betray ; 

Once,  and  once  only  round  the  line, 
Of  that  unbroken  multitude, 
His  dark  eye  flashed,  his  lip  subdued, 

With  strong  but  momentary  power, 
Some  inward  working  ;  it  might  be 

Some  thought,  some  memory  of  an  hour 
Happier  than  this,  when  he  was  free 

From  bonds  unused  to  Roman  limb : 

But  for  His  cause  how  dear  to  him ! 

, 


94  THE    MARTYR. 

There  came  a  voice  unto  his  ear, 
He  heeded  not,  it  came  again ; 

He  roused  him  from  his  dream  to  hear ; 
It  was  his  sovereign's ;  on  the  plain, 

Beneath  Rome's  eagle  lost  and  won, 

Won  by  his  own  right  hand,  that  tone 

Had  bid  his  comrades  wreath  him  there 
With  laurels,  such  as  victors  wear ; 

But  now  that  voice  unwelcome  came, 
The  voice  of  one  who  counselled  shame ; 

Calmly  the  martyr  stood,  nor  tear 

Was  in  that  eye,  nor  mark  of  fear. 

Prince,  I  am  ready;  this  cold  blood 

Was  warm,  when  it  gushed  forth  for  thee 

Upon  the  plain  where  terrors  stood;      * 
But  it  can  flow,  and  thou  shalt  see 

A  Roman's  life  blood  freely  given, 

Aye,  willingly  as  rain  from  heaven. 

And  when  thou  seest  this  eye  unquailed, 
This  heart  untroubled,  unassailed, 

Think  not  of  stoic  constancy, 
Child  of  a  weak  philosophy ; 

But  know  how  well  a  Christian's  faith 

Can  bear  him  up  to  conquer  death. 

I 


THE    MARTYR.  95 

Yes,  for  that  faith,  His  faith  who  died 

On  the  accursed  tree,  I  dare 
The  scaffold's  terrors,  all  that  pride, 

And  priestly  malice  can  prepare  ; 
All  that  the  heart  and  frame  hath  riven, 
All  cannot  shake  my  hope  of  heaven  ! 

Hear,  soldier !  thou  hast  bravely  stood, 
Fearless  of  death  on  fields  of  blood, 

And  saved  from  shame  these  folds  that  fly 
In  pride  above  our  canopy ; 

And  canst  thou,  wilt  thou  yield  the  life, 

So  nobly  perilled  in  the  strife 

Upon  that  scaffold  ?  think  what  pains 
Will  rack  thy  form  while  life  remains ; 

And  worse,  far  worse,  what  lasting  shame, 
Shall  taint  thy  blood  and  blot  thy  fame  ! 

Will  thou  not  bow?  one  look,  one  sign, 

Will  make  the  proffered  mercy  thine. 

No  answer  !  by  the  gods  on  high, 

Thou  scornest  our  boon — then,  traitor,  die  ! 
Traitor  !  the  old  man  calmly  said, 

And  sadly  smiling,  raised  his  head  : 
Traitor  !  then  fixed  his  glance  and  broke 

The  death-like  silence  as  he  spoke. 
• 


96  THE    MARTYR. 

I  speak  not  now,  my  prince,  to  crave 
The  least,  the  meanest  boon,  thy  power 

Could  offer  me ;  the  dark,  dark  grave, 
Is  bright  and  welcome  in  this  hour, 

To  one  whose  faith  hath  fixed  his  gaze 

On  realms  that  know  not  hours  nor  days. 

I  may  not,  will  not  reck  of  life, 

For  it  to  me  is  in  the  leaf, 
The  autumn  leaf,  which  the  last  strife, 

The  latest  struggle  (long  or  brief, 
It  matters  not,)  shall  wrench  away, 
To  perish  with  its  kindred  clay. 

Thou  sayest  that  I  have  perilled  it ! 

'Tis  well ;  and  shall  I  basely  now 
To  your  idolatry  submit, 

Abjure  the  faith  which  I  avow, 
For  what,  even  for  thy  tinselled  show  ! 
No,  by  the  faith  I  cherish,  no.     » 


Look  on  these  locks,  they're  thin  and  gray, 

The  frosts  of  near  a  century 
Have  whitened  them ;  look,  then,  and  say 

How  worthless,  valueless  to  me, 
Were  the  poor  minutes  I  could  live, 
And  all  the  honors  thou  couldst  give. 


THE    MARTYR.  97 

But  were  they  all  eternal ;  were 

Each  hour  a  life  revived,  renewed, 
As  the  undying  eagles  are ; 

Not  for  that  vassal  multitude, 
Not  for  your  diadem  and  throne, 
The  proudest,  earth  hath  ever  known  ; 
Would  I  exchange  this  hour  of  death, 
The  martyr's  victory  and  his  wreath. 


M  DCCC  XXVI. 


: 


• 

I 


; 


THE      CLOUDS. 


. 
THE  clouds  have  their  own  language ;  unto  me 

They  have  told  many  a  tale  in  by-gone  days. 
At  twilight's  hour,  when  gentle  reverie 

Steals  o'er  the  heart,  as  tread  the  elvish  fays, 
With  their  fleet  footsteps  on  the  moonlit  grass, 
And  leave  their  storied  circles  where  they  pass. 

So,  even  so,  to  me  the  embracing  clouds, 
With  their  pure  thoughts  leave  holy  traces  here, 

And  from  the  tempest-gathered  fold  that  shrouds 
The  darkening  earth,  unto  the  blue,  and  clear, 

And  sunny  brightness  of  yon  arching  sky, 

They  have  their  language  and  their  melody. 

Have  you  not  felt  it  when  the  dropping  rain 

From  the  soft  showers  of  spring    hath    clothed 
the  earth 

With  its  unnumbered  offspring  ?  felt  not,  when 
The  conquering  sun  hath  proudly  struggled  forth 


THE    CLOUDS.  99 

In  misty  radiance,  until  cloud  and  spot 
Were  blended  in  one  brightness  1  can  you  not 


Look  out  and  love  when  the  departing  sun 
Enrobes  their  peaks  in  shapes  fantastical 

In  his  last  splendor,  and  reflects  upon 

Their  skirts  his  farewell  smile  ere  shadows  fall 

Above  his  burial  like  our  boyhood's  gleams 

Of  fading  light,  or  like  the  "  stuff  of  dreams"  ? 

4HKt 

Or  giving  back  those  tints  indefinite. 

Yet  brightly  blending,  there  to  form  that  arch, 

Whereon  the  angel-spirits  of  the  light 

Marshalled  their  joyous  and  triumphant  march, 

When  sank  the  whelming  waters,  and  again 

Left  the  green  islands  to  the  sons  of  men  ? 

Oh,  then  as  rose  each  lofty  pile,  and  threw 
Its  growing  shadow  on  the  sinking  tide, 

How  glowed  each  peak  with  the  resplendent  hue, 
As  its  new  lustre  told  that  wrath  had  died, 

Till  the  blue  waves  within  their  limits  curled, 

And  that  broad  bow  in  beauty  spanned  the  world. 

Gaze  yet  again,  and  you  may  see  on  high 
The  opposing  hosts  that  mutter  as  they  form 

Their  stern  battalions,  ere  the  artillery 
Bids  the  destroying  angel  guide  its  storm : 


100  THE    CLOUDS. 

If  you  have  heard  on  battle's  eve  the  low 
Defiance  quickly  uttered  to  the  foe, 

When  the  firm  ranks  gaze  fiercely  brow  on  brow, 
And  eye  on  eye,  while  every  heart  beats  fast 

With  hopes  and  fears,  all  feel,  but  none  avow, 
Pulsations  which  perchance  may  be  their  last, 

Whom  the  unhonored  sepulchre  shall  shroud ; 

If  you  have  seen  this,  gaze  upon  that  cloud  : 

How  from  the  bosom  of  its  blackness  springs 
The  cleaving  lightning  kindling  on  its  way, 

Flinging  such  blinding  glory  from  its  wings, 
That  he  who  looks  grows  drunk  with  its  array 

Of  powef  and  beauty,  till  his  eye  is  dim, 

And  dazzling  darkness  overshadows  him. 

Oh,  God  !  can  he  conceive  who  hath  not  known 
The  wondrous  workings  of  thy  firmament, 

Thine  untold  majesty,  around  whose  throne 
They  stand,  thy  winged  messengers,  or  sent 

In  light  or  darkness  on  their  destined  path, 

Bestow  thy  blessings,  or  direct  thy  wrath. 

Then  here,  in  this  thy  lower  temple,  here 
We  kneel  to  thee  in  worship;  what,  to  these 

Symbols  of  thine,  wherein  thou  dost  appear, 
Are  painted  domes  or  priestly  palaces ; 


THE    CLOUDS.  10 1 

On  this  green  turf,  and  gazing  on  yon  sphere, 

We  call  on  thee  to  commune  and  to  bless, 
j  And  see  in  holy  fancy  each  pure  sigh, 
-Ascend  like  incense  to  thy  throne  on  high. 


M  DCCC  XXVI. 


TO      MAY. 


COME,  gentle  May ! 
Come  with  thy  robe  of  flowers, 
Come  with   thy  sun   and  sky,   thy  clouds   and 
showers, 

Come,  and  bring  forth  unto  the  eye  of  day, 
From  their  imprisoning  and  mysterious  night. 
The  buds  of  many  hues,  the  children  of  thy  light. 

Come,  wondrous  May ! 
For  at  the  bidding  of  thy  magic  wand, 
Quick  from  the  caverns  of  the  breathing  land, 

In  all  their  green  and  glorious  array 
They  spring,  as  spring  the  Persian  maids  to  hail 
Thy  flushing  footsteps  in  Cashmerian  vale. 

Come,  vocal  May  ! 
Come  with  thy  train,  that  high 
On  some  fresh  branch  pour  out  their  melody, 

Or  carolling  thy  praise,  the  live-long  day, 


• 


TO    MAY.  103 

Sit  perched  in  some  lone  glen,  on  echo  calling, 
Mid  murmuring  woods,  and  musical  waters  falling. 

Come,  sunny  May ! 
Come  with  thy  laughing  beam, 
What  time  the  lazy  mist  melts  on  the  stream, 

Or  seeks  the  mountain  top  to  meet  thy  ray, 
Ere  yet  the  dew-drop  on  thine  own  soft  flower, 
Hath  lost  its  light  or  died  beneath  his  power. 

Come,  holy  May ! 

When  sunk  behind  the  cold  and  western  hill, 
His  light  hath  ceased  to  play  on  leaf  and  rill, 

And  twilight's  footsteps  hasten  his  decay; 
Come  with  thy  musings,  and  my  heart  shall  be 
Like  a  pure  temple  consecrate  to  thee.  \ 

Come,  beautiful  May ! 
Like  youth  and  loveliness — 
Like  her  I  love ;  oh>  come  in  thy  full  dress, 

The  drapery  of  dark  winter  cast  away ; 
To  the  bright  eye,  and  the  glad  heart  appear, 
Queen  of  the  spring  and  mistress  of  the  year  ! 

Yet,  lovely  May  ! 

Teach  her  whose  eye  shall  rest  upon  this  rhyme 
To  spurn  the  gilded  mockeries  of  time, 

The  heartless  pomp  that  beckons  to  betray, 


104  TO    MAY. 

And  keep  as  thou  wilt  find  that  heart  each  year, 
Pure  as  thy  dawn,  and  as  thy  sunset  clear. 

And  let  me  too,  sweet  May ! 
Let  thy  fond  votary  see 
As  fade  thy  beauties,  all  the  vanity 

Of  this  world's  pomp,  then  teach,  that  though 

decay 
In  his  short  winter,  bury  beauty's  frame, 

In  fairer  worlds  the.soul  shall  break  his  sway, 
Another  spring  shall  bloom  eternal  and  the  same. 


M  DCCC  XXVI. 


I 


FORGET    ME    NOT. 


FORGET  me*  not,  forget  me  not ! 

It  is  the  language  of  the  heart, 
That  hallows  each  accustomed  spot, 

Whence  we  prepare  to  part ; 
The  haunt  of  holy  infancy, 

And  sunny  childhood's  dreamy  spot, 
Call  the  big  tear  into  the  eye, 

And  say,  forget  me  not. 

The  mutual  vow,  the  chaste  embrace, 

The  blushing  look  of  love  ;  oh,  what 
Can  dim  their  brightness  or  efface, 

Their  fond  forget  m£  not  ? 
The  passionate  flame  of  boyhood's  hour, 

The  flame  half  cherished,  half  forgot, 
Swells  on  the  soul  with  stifling  power, 

And  throbs,  forget  me  not. 

The  friendships  of  the  dead  appear, 
The  memories  death  can  never  rot, 


106  FORGET    ME    NOT. 

And  ring  upon  the  mind's  still  ear, 

Their  sad  forget  me  not. 
Voices  like  morning  music  wake 

A  thrilling  crowd  from  memory's  grot. 
Till  the  heart's  chords  in  sorrow  shake, 
•  To  their  forget  me  not. 

T 
Souls  with  our  kindred  souls  that  blent, 

Faces  that  brightened  our  dark  lot, 
And  eyes  come  back,  all  eloquent, 

With  their  forget  me  not  : 
The  thought  from  which  the  heart  shrinks  back, 

Is  that  we  must  unmemoried  rot : 
The  hope  that  lightens  life's  dull  track, 

Is  this  forget  me  not. 


M  DCOO  XXVI 

* 


i 


FOREST    LEAVES. 


* 

Come  hither  among  the  forest  leaves, 

Yellow,  and  red,  and  blue, 
And  see  how  the  sighing  autumn  weaves 

Her  robe  of  every  hue ; 
To  mantle  the  year  that  gorgeously  dies, 

Like  the  sunset's  pomp  away, 
And  to  make  the  grave  where  the  summer  lies, 

A  mockery  of  decay. 


Come  hither  among  the  forest  trees, 

You  have  seen  their  summer  dress, 
When  birds  were  trilling  their  melodies, 

From  bowers  of  loveliness ; 
Come  where  the  leaf  so  green  and  gay, 

In  sun  and  wind  so  free, 
Is  doomed  to  wither  its  bloom  away, 

Upon  the  sorrowing  tree.  , 

Come  hither  among  the  forest  trees, 
When  the  autumn  moon  shines  clear, 


108  THE    FOREST    LEAVES. 

And  the  cold  and  moaning  autumn  breeze. 

Holds  mournful  revel  here  ; 
While  his  fitful  gusts  are  piping  shrill, 

The  dying  leaves  among. 
Which  wake  from  their  bed  by  the  dropping  ri 

To  dance  to  his  midnight  song. 

Come  hither  among  the  forest  leaves, 

And  weep,  oh,  well  you  may, 
For  cold  is  the  heart  that  never  grieves, 

O'er  the  pride  of  death's  array ; 
But  colder  still  is  the  heart  that  weeps 

Its  precious  tears  in  vain, 
Nor  knows  that  the  leaf  which  sweetly  sleeps. 

Shall  in  beauty  bloom  again. 


M  DCCC  XXVII. 


MISSOLONGHI 


GREECE  had  a  fortress  yesterday : 
The  flag  of  freedom  waved  upon 
Its  battlements  ;  but  morning's  ray 
Beholds  it  not :  the  glorious  sun 
Threw  his  last  beam  upon  its  fold, 
A  beautiful  beam  of  light  and  gold ; 
That  glorious  sun  hath  risen  again, 
Hurrying  the  clouds  from  vale  and  wave, 
And  seeks  in  splendor,  but  in  vain, 
The  banner  of  the  brave. 

Within  that  fortress  yesterday, 
There  beat  seven  thousand  hearts  of  mould 
As  tameless  as  the  stern  array 
Of  heroes  at  Thermopylae  ; 
Their  own  three  hundred  sires  of  old, 
Who  panted  for  the  fight,  the  pall, 
As  young  hearts  for  the  festival, 
And  fought  till  it  was  time  to  die  ; 
Who  found  the  death  they  longed  to  meet, 
10 


MISSOLONGHI. 

And  perishing  in  victory, 
Were  conquerors  in  defeat. 


Around  that  banner  yesterday, 
With  eye  of  fire  and  arm  of  nerve, 
They  swore  their  falchion  in  the  fray, 
Their  arm  on  its  avenging  way, 
From  honor  should  not  swerve ; 
That  sooner  far  that  arm  should  fall, 
Shrunk,  powerless,  palsied,  by  each  side  ; 
That  blade  in  danger's  loudest  call, 
Each  craven's  fear  deride  ; 
Each  eye  should  life  and  light  resign, 
Each  stone  beneath  their  feet  should  be 
Sprinkled  with  blood  a  fitting  shrine, 
Oh,  liberty  !  for  thee. 

And  in  the  gloomy  clouds  of  night, 
The  crescent  moons  of  Moslem  sway. 
As  if  they  feared  to  see  the  light, 
Came  on  their  darkened  way ; 
And  they,  the  noble  and  the  brave. 
Were  slaughtered  by  the  infidel ; 
And  there  was  not  an  arm  to  save, 
Or  succor  those  who  freely  fell 
For  freedom's  name,  yet  falling,  left 
To  Greece  their  noble  legacy, 
A  hope  which  tyrants  have  not  reft, 
Laurels  which  gathered  from  the  tree, 


MISSOLONGHI.  Ill 

That  glory  shields  from  time  and  theft, 
Bloom  in  fresh  immortality; 
And  than  all  these  that  holier  gift, 
A  martyr's  memory. 

They  swore  each  stone  should  be  a  shrine. 

Of  sacrifice  to  liberty  ; 

And  it  shall  be  a  shrine,  for  there, 

The  pilgrim's  step,  the  patriot's  prayer, 

Shall  linger,  shall  ascend  on  high  : 

And  freedom  !  thou  shalt  make  it  thine, 

Thine  as  thou  madest  their  land  of  yore  ; 

The  spot  on  which  Bozzaris  died, 

The  grave  of  him  whose  bright  harp  wore 

The  cypress  wreath,  too  soon  for  thee, 

Who  left  his  own  free  foreign  shore, 

To  battle  by  thy  side  ; 

Yes,  holy  these  shall  ever  be, 

And  thou  shalt  make  that  fortress  ground, 

A  temple  sacred  unto  thee, 

And  lovely  to  the  brave  and  free, 

Prom  sea  and  land  who  gather  round, 

And  there  thy  Grecian  sons  shall  falter, 

Their  sad  proud  prayers  upon  thine  altar, 

And  make  each  breeze  that  round  it  stirs, 

Tfrick  with  the  vows  of  worshippers. 

'  •><  '• 

M  DCCC  XXVII. 


T  O 


DEAR  girl,  full  many  a  time  have  I 

Seen  cheeks  of  as  transparent  hue. 
And  lips  as  purely  rich,  and  eye 

As  beautifully  blue ; 
Yet  never  have  I  known  a  face, 

So  darkly  brilliantly  divine, 
As  when  a  kindling  smile  gives  place 

To  that  dear  frown  of  thine. 

Oh,  some  there  are  who  love  to  look. 
When  heaven  is  almost  dim  with  light, 

o       ' 

And  would  not  let  the  blue  arch  brook 

A  cloud  upon  its  sight ; 
But  when  around  the  conquering  sun 

They  thickly  crowd,  oh,  then  be  mine, 
To  gaze  with  rapture  as  upon 

That  lowering  eye  of  thine. 

4| 

For  though  my  love  has  been  to  thee 
As  true  as  hope,  or  faith  on  high, 

• 


. 
TO    113 

Yet  oft  of  late  have  fallen  on  me 

The  flashings  of  that  eye ; 
And  I  am  slave  enough  to  bless 

The  look  that  would  each  hope  reprove, 
And  worship  even  the  loveliness 

That  bids  me  cease  to  love. 

£  * 


M  DCCC  XXVII. 


* 


*  „* 


' 

CHANGES. 



I  OFTEN  muse  at  even  tide, 

When  present  things  are  dimly  seen, 
And  scenes  that  day  hath  power  to  hide, 

Come  back  all  fresh  and  green, 
And  throng  my  sense,  though  all  alone, 
Upon  the  changes  I  have  known. 

For  from  our  cradled  infancy, 

The  world  is  changing  every  hour ; 

Faces  are  gone  we  used  to  see, 
The  bud  becomes  a  flower, 

That  blossoms  in  the  dew  and  sun, 

And  fades  as  other  flowers  have  done. 

The  morning  sky  that  looked  so  blue, 
So  very  blue  and  full  of  mirth, 

When  night's  thick  curtain  it  updrew, 
And  looked  upon  the  earth ; 

Was  clouded  at  mid-day,  but  now 

It  bears  a  rainbow  on  its  brow. 


CHANGES.  115 

The  cold  in  heart,  and  gray  in  head, 

May  laugh  my  fantasies  to  scorn, 
And  tell  me  that  when  I  have  read 

The  changes  they  have  borne  ; 
Then  I  at  length,  and  not  till  then, 
May  descant  on  the  change  in  men. 

Well  let  us  then  look  round  in  thought, 
On  those  whom  we  have  seen  for  years, 

And  mark  the  wonders  time  hath  wrought, 
Arid  smile  perhaps  through  tears, 

To  feel  with  every  face  we  view, 

That  we  ourselves  are  changing  too. 

Yes,  I  alas,  am  changed  in  heart, 
I  cannot  smile,  and  may  not  weep ; 

The  tear  beneath  my  lid  may  start, 
Its  course  it  must  not  keep ; 

I  think  on  what  I  was,  and  then 

Would  gladly  be  the  same  again,      jf 

The  same  in  childhood's  merriment, 
That  frolic  lightness  of  the  blood, 

The  same  in  tears  which  seemed  but  sent, 
As  dew  upon  the  bud  ; 

The  same  in  hopes  which  turned  to  fear, 

And  fears  which  came  to  disappear. 


116  CHANGES. 

The  same  in  innocence  of  mind, 
The  same  in  danger  and  delight, 

The  same  when  mates  were  cross  or  kind, 
The  same  at  morn  and  night ; 

The  same,  so  I  were  changed  I  trow, 

From  that  dull  being  I  am  now. 


M  DCCC  XXVIII. 


i 


THOUGHTS    OF    A    STUDEINT. 


MANY  a  sad,  sweet  thought  have  I, 

Many  a  passing  sunny  gleam, 
Many  a  bright  tear  in  mine  eye. 

Many  a  wild  and  wandering  dream ; 
Stolen  from  hours,  I  should  have  tied 
To  musty  volumes  at  my  side  ; 
Given  to  hours  that  sweetly  wooed 
My  heart  from  its  study's  solitude. 

Oft  when  the  south  winds,  dancing  free, 

Over  the  earth  and  in  the  sky, 
And  the  flowers  peep  softly  out  to  see 

The  frolic  spring  as  she  wantons  by. 
When  the  breeze  and  beam,  like  thieves,  come  in 
To  steal  me  away,  I  deem  it  sin 
To  slight  their  voice  ;  and  away  I'm  straying, 
Over  the  hills  and  vales  a-maying. 

Then  can  I  hear  the  earth  rejoice, 
Happier  than  man  may  ever  be ; 


H8  THOUGHTS    OF    A    STUDENT. 

Every  fountain  hath  then  a  voice. 
That  sings  of  its  glad  festivity  ; 
For  it  hath  burst  the  chains,  that  bound 
Its  currents  dead  in  the  frozen  ground, 
And  flashing  away  in  the  sun  has  gone, 
Singing,  and  singing,  and  singing  on. 

Autumn  hath  sunset  hours  and  then, 

Many  a  musing  mood  I  cherish. 
Many  a  hue  of  fancy,  when 

The  hues  of  earth  are  about  to  perish  ; 
Clouds  are  there,  and  brighter  I  ween, 
Hath  real  sunset  never  seen  : 
Sad  as  the  faces  of  friends  that  die, 
And  beautiful  as  their  memory, 
i 
Love  hath  its  thoughts,  we  cannot  keep, 

Visions  the  mind  may  not  control, 
Waking,  as  fancy  does  in  sleep, 

The  secret  transports  of  the  soul. 
Faces  and  forms  are  strangely  mingled, 
Till  one  by  one  they  are  slowly  singled, 
To  the  voice  and  lip,  and  eye  of  her, 
I  worship  like  an  idolater. 

'"'4* 
Many  a  big  proud  tear  have  I, 

When  from  my  sweet  and  roaming  track, 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  STUDENT.         119 

From  the  green  earth  and  misty  sky, 
And  spring  and  love,  I  hurry  back. 
*    ^  Then  what  a  dismal  dreary  gloom. 
Settles  upon  my  loathed  room ; 
Darker  to  every  thought  and  sense, 
Than  if  they  had  never  travelled  thence. 

Yet  I  have  other  thoughts,  that  cheer 
The  toilsome  day,  and  lonely  night, 
And  many  a  scene  and  hope  appear, 

And  almost  make  me  gay  and  bright. 
Honor  and  fame  that  I  would  win, 
Though  every  toil  that  yet  hath  been 
Were  doubly  borne,  and  not  an  hour 
Were  brightly  hued  by  fancy's  power. 

And  though  I  may  sometimes  sigh  to  think, 
Of  earth,  and  heaven,  and  wind,  and  sea, 
And  know  that  the  cup  that  others  drink, 

Shall  never  be  brimmed  by  me ; 
That  many  a  joy  must  be  untasted, 
And  many  a  glorious  breeze  be  wasted, 
Yet  would  not  if  I  dared  repine, 
That  toil  and  study  and  care  are  mine. 


M  DCCC  XXVIII. 


JF 


<» 

• 

SIGNS    OF    LOVE. 


I  HAVE  read  mil  many  a  witching  tale  of  love 

by-gone  years, 
Its  deep  sweet  sighs,  its  timorous  hopes,  its  raptui 

and  its  tears. 

' 

And  yet  with  all  my  lore   of  love,  I  never  con 

divine, 

7 

If  it  hath  ever  deigned  to  dwell  within  this  heart 
mine. 


Fair  lady,  then  I   come  to  thee,  and   by  that  fi 

black  eye, 
Whose   drooping    lash  just  half  conceals  its   sc 

quick  witchery, 
I  know  that  thou  canst  spell  me  right,  the  story 

would  read, 
If  the  words  I  dare  to  whisper  thee,  be  proofs  of  lo1 

indeed  ! 


I  cannot  well  remember  now,  that  I  have  late 

known 
One  single  form  or  face  I  thought  unrivalled  ar 


alone ; 


* 

«. 

I 


SIGNS    OF    LOVE.  121 

Yet  many  a  form  of  winning   grace,  and  look  of 

I  V  W  "#» 

.  mirth  and  light, 

In  all  the  pride  of  loveliness  have  flashed  upon  my 
sight. 

* 

And  I  have  stopped  and  gazed,  and  yet  have  turned 

to  gaze  once  more 

At  charms  'twere  not  idolatry,  I  fancied,  to  adore ; 
And  still,  with  scarce  a  pang  I  saw  the  beautiful 

depart, 
And  felt  though  they  had  dimmed  mine  eye,  they 

could  not  touch  my  heart. 

*  * 

But  I  can  just  recall  to  me,  some  few  short  years  ago, 

How  there  was  one  who  shared  with  me  my  boyish 

weal  and  woe, 
And  rambled  with  me  many  a  time,  when  spring 

,  was  on  the  earth, 
And  the  birds  were  coming  back  with  songs,  and 

buds  were  just  in  birth ; 

Or  when  the  autumn   sunset   spread   its   many  a 

golden  hue 
Upon   the  clouds,   and   leafy  earth,  and   sky   and 

stream  of  blue,  , 

And  how  we   talked   till   voice  and   lip   trembled 

unconsciously, 
And  how  I  blushed,  and  looked  at  her,  who  blushed, 

and  looked  at  me  ; 
11 


122  SIGNS    OF    LOVE. 

And  how  I  feared  lest  she  should  find  the  passionate 

hope  I  felt, 
The  strange  sweet  thought,  the  waking  dream,  that 

in  my  bosom  dwelt ; 
Yet  could  have  almost  frowned  on  her,  who  would 

not  always  see 
The  glance  I  hoped  her  own  would  meet  in  pride  of 

modesty : 


And  how  when  mirth  was  loud  of  laugh,  and  the 
eye  was  bright  with  bliss,  *  %V 

And  the  cup  was  sparkling  with  the  juice,  I  met 
with  greeting  kiss, 

I 

Her   name,   one   word,   one  thought  of  her,   and 

memory  came  to  fill 
My   heart  with   pensive    music,  like   the    voice  of 

autumn  rill.  * 

*     •  •** 

J?  '  *# 

But  ah  !  those  days  of  young  delight,  I  should  have 

all  forgot,  ,     * 

But  memory  sometimes  wakes  within,  and  sighs  that 

they  are  not, 
And  'minds  me  of  the  flower  she  ^pulled  when  the 

parting  hour  was  nigh, 
And  gave  me  with  a  blushing  cheek  and  a  big  tear 

in  her  eye. 

I  kept  it,  and  I  often  loved  in  secresy  to  sit, 
And  think  it  smiled  and  grew  more  green  whene'er 
I  looked  on  it ; 


SIGNS    OF    LOVE.  123 

But   I  grew  cold  and    careless,  and  it  pined  as  if 

with  grief,       *-%^| 
And  now,  whene'er  I  look,  I  find  a  moisture  on,  the 

leaf; 

*• 
A  single  tear  upon  that  leaf,  and  she  who  gave  it, 

she, 

Has  she  too  pined  ?  but  I !  I  am  the  fool  of  memory !     € 
What,  lady  ?    Do  those  dark  eyes  smile  ?    It  cannot 

be  that  this, 
This  melancholy   musing  thought,  can  be   love's 

dream  of  bliss  ! 

^    ">  •     ,. 

And  now  you  sigh,  as  if  to  say,  that  in  this  world  of 
ours, 

1  w 

Grief  steals  round  finest  feelings  as  the  dew  hangs 

on  the  flowers, 
And  passionate  love,  as  if  to  show  even  joy  grows 

sorrow  here, 

Breathes  its  sweet  odor  in  a  sigh,  and  smiles  but 
%       through  a  tear. 


M  DCCC  XXVIII. 

• 


<<          V 

* 


ON    A    SEAL, 

•Jii     ft     ' 


THE     DEVICE    OF    WHICH    WAS,    THE     SUN    SETTIN?G  * 

I 


, 

" 


As  fades  the  sun's  departing  light, 
On  hill  and  wave  and  leafy  tree, 
And  the  thick  shades  of  coming  night, 
Gather  above  his  burial  bright, 

In  funeral  majesty :  V  '-6- 

So  when  we  part ;  when  the  last  token 
Of  love,  that  lights  that  eye,  is  gone, 
When  the  last  speaking  word  is  spoken, 
When  the  last  breaking  grasp  is  broken, 
Dark  fears  come  crowding  on. 

But  as  the  morning's  eye  hath  found 

That  sun  rejoicing  in  his  path, 
Breaking  the  cloudy  chains  that  bound, 
Making  the  mists  that  linger  round, 
All  radiant  with  his  wrath. 


ON    A    SEAL.  125 

* 

So  when  that  eye  comes  beaming  back, 
With  tales  such  eyes  alone  recite. 

Then  the  heart's  sunshine  gilds  each  rack 

Of  cloudy  fear  that  dims  its  track, 
Till  all  is  lost  in  light. 


* 

*  > 


v  -     *• 

pi 

> 

1 

11* 


I 

TRANSLATIONS 


DE      BERANGER. 


LA    VIEILLESSE. OLD    AGE. 

We  know  that  time,  who  wings  us  by, 

Though  youth  yet  finds  us  warm  and  gay, 
Leaves  footsteps  in  our  cheek  and  eye, 

That  warn  us  of  decay ;  - 
But  still  at  every  step  we  see 

Fresh  flowers  spring  up,  sweet  buds  unfold, 
And  feel  'tis  happiness  to  be ; 

This  is  not  to  grow  old  ! 

In  vain  amid  the  festive  scene, 

With  sound  of  song,  and  light  of  wine, 
We  soothe  the  heart,  yet  fresh  and  green, 

They  tell  us,  we  decline ; 
But  even  until  the  last  dim  hour, 

To  love,  though  limbs  grow  frail  and  cold, 
The  joyous  wine,  the  song's  sweet  power; 

This  is  not  to  grow  old ! 

'* 


TRANSLATIONS    FROM    DE    BERANGER.          127 

Does  the  weak  fair,  who  gaily  took 

The  worship  of  our  frolic  prime, 
Repeat  to  us  with  taunting  look, 

The  ravages  of  time  ; 
At  less  expense  more  bliss  to  gain, 

And  in  a  mistress,  know  we  hold 
A  friend,  who  shares  each  joy  and  pain ; 

This  is  not  to  grow  old  ! 

| 

Still  though  our  wonted  passions  keep 

Within  our  breasts  their  kindly  sway, 
Fate  speeds,  then  let  us  calmly  sweep 

Together  to  decay : 
Thus  from  the  corner  of  my  age, 

To  see,  my  friends,  in  virtue  bold, 
The  storms  of  life  innoxious  rage, 
And  end  with  you  its  pilgrimage  ; 

This  is  not  to  grow  old ! 


LE  CRT  DE  LA  FRANCE. THE  CRY  OP  FRANCE. 

i 
Away    with    the    Bourbons !      'Tis    France    who 

exclaims : 
Too  long  have  we  borne  your  degenerate  sway  ; 


128          TRANSLATIONS    FROM    DE    BERANGER. 

Oppressors  !  we  blush  for  your  faces  and  names, 
Fly !    Fly  to  your  dens !     Freedom  kindles  her 
flames : 

Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  away  ! 

fc  *" 

Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  their  cruelties'  dye, 

The  pencil  of  Clio  were  weak  to  portray ; 

Yes  !  hark  to  the  voice  of  your  victims  !  their  cry 

The  gloomy  abysses  return  to  the  sky  : 

Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  away ! 

Away  with  them !  then  shall  our  proud  Tricolor, 
Our  bow  on  the  mountains,  its  splendor  display, 
And  "  our  Country,  our  Honor,"  the  words  we  adore, 
The  flag  of  our  fathers  shall  hallow  once  more  : 
Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  away  ! 

Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  the  Loire  shall  again, 
Reassemble  its  heroes,  and  call  to  the  fray, 
And  they  who've  forgotten  to  vanquish,  shall  then, 
'Neath  our  banners  renew  their  old  glory  like  men : 
Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  away  ! 

.    -*i 

Away  with  them!  Aye!  and  the  hordes  they  have  led 
To  disgrace  our  free  soil  with  their  foreign  array, 
Crush,  Frenchmen  !  the  tyrants  who  basely  betrayed, 
Then  sought  from  strange  banners  inglorious  shade  : 
Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  away  ! 

»  • 


* 

TRANSLATIONS    FROM    DE    BERANGER.          120 

Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  my  country  arise, 
Regain  the  proud  rank,  thou  shouldst  honor  today, 
Thou  shouldst  reign  :  then  sweep  off  with  their  toys 

and  their  ties, 

The  minions  we  hate,  the  vile  race  we  despise  : 
Away  with  the  Bourbons  !  away  ! 


LES  VETERANS. THE  VETERANS. 

§ 

AH,  they  have  now  almost  forgot, 
Our  service  in  the  bannered  wars, 
And  we  are  fain  to  hide  the  scars, 

Trophies  of  hearts  that  wearied  not ; 
Jena  and  Ulm  can  witness  how 

Hands  nerved  to  do,  hearts  throbbed  to  dare. 
And  yet  they  say  with  scornful  brow, 

Oh,  they  were  there  ! 


Yes,  we  were  there,  for  honor  there, 
Not  for  a  chief,  but  France  ;  that  name 
Wakes  in  each  heart  a  filial  flame,  ^ 

Alike  in  glory  and  despair  ; 
Our  mother  calls,  we  fly  to  save, 

She  bids,  our  blood  flows  free  as  air : 
In  dark  defeat,  or  well-won  field, 

Still  we  were  there  ! 


130          TRANSLATIONS    FROM    DE    BERANGER, 

Yet  all  the  valiant  could  not  fall, 
And  sheltered  now  will  they  remain, 
Till  France  shall  summon  them  again, 

And  find  them  few,  but  fearless  all ; 
Proud  remnant  of  that  host  who  came 

To  shake  the  nations  with  despair  ; 
To  renovate  thine  olden  fame, 

We  still  are  there  ! 

•    * 

i 

To  shield  our  king,  to  guard  his  crown, 
In  peril's  path  we  boldly  move 
To  save  a  people  whom  we  love, 

To  crush  a  foe  who  fears  our  frown, 
And  oh,  when  honor's  voice  shall  sound, 

That  voice  shall  not  be  lost  in  air;     f 
Our  country's  living  ramparts  round, 

We  shall  be  there  ! 

.  '  :'&'': 
Now  we  resign  those  blades  that  blazed 

Such  lightning  on  the  vaunting  foe  ; 

We  lay  our  eagle  ensigns  low, 

Those  meteors  on  which  nations  gazed ; 

But  if  our  France,  if  glory  high, 

Should  summon  us,  the  world  shall  hear    f* 
* 

Louder  than  triumph's  note,  our  cry, 

Behold  us  here ! 

•    -: 

.       * 


TO 


OH  well  do  I  remember  now,  the  time  when  first  we 

met. 
And  memory  must  forget  to  hoard  all  joy,  ere  I 

forget 
That  form  so  dear,   that  front  so  clear,   and    the 

paleness  of  that  face, 
That  won  me  with  its  speaking  lines  of  tenderness 

and  grace.     * 

And  then  the  meeting  of  our  eyes,  oh,  years  and 

years  have  flown, 
And  yet  upon  my  heart  that  glance  is  graven  as  on 

stone, 
And  from  that  heart  must  life  depart,  before  decay 

hath  traced 
Its  impress  on  that  moment,  or  its  memory  defaced. 

* 
For  even  now  though  thou  art  changed,  and  though 

that  eye  hath  strayed 
To  meet  the  glance  another  gives,  I  dare  not  to 

upbraid : 

T* 


132  TO 


For  when  I  could  and  would  upbraid,  that  look 

comes  fresh  through  years, 
And  dims  the  eye  that  shone  with  wrath,  and  turns 

my  taunts  to  tears. 

How  oft  when  spring  came  sweetly  in,  and  woke 

the  early  flowers, 
I  watched  to  meet  your  morning  step,  and  cursed 

the  lagging  hours ; 
The  rose  you  threw  I  treasured  too,  to  feed  my 

memory, 
But  all  its  leaves  and  fragrance  fled,  and  left  the 

thorn  with  me. 

And  even  then  I  fondly  dreamed,  the  faded  might 

resume 
The  fragrance  of  its  dewy  prime,  the  life  of  its  young 

bloom ; 
But  now  I  know,  that  even  though  the  tree  may  bud 

once  more, 

Jj^to 

Nor  sun,  nor  dew,  nor  breeze,  can  e'er  its  withered 
flower  restore. 

W 

. 

Yet  like  the  Israelite  of  old,  who  turned  with  linger- 

i     i 
ing  look, 

His  eye  upon  the  ruined  fane,  Lord's  majesty  for 
sook. 

aH*** 


TO    133 

And  offered  there  his  evening  prayer,  and  joyed  to 
see  arise 

From  its  neglected  altar-stone,  his  morning  sacrifice. 

i 

So  from  the  shrine,  thy  form  once  knew,  and  yet 
thy  memory  knows, 

No  other  prayers  were  ever  breathed,  no  other  in 
cense  rose ; 

And  even  now,  though  desolate  thou  hast  left  it.  it 
shall  be 

The  temple  of  my  worship  still,  and  consecrate  to 
thee, 


M  DCCC  XXVI11. 

•I 


12 


V 

ft 


LINES 


* 

ON    HEARING    OF    THE    UNEXPECT^fc  DEATH    OF     \ 

•^7 

YOUNG    LADY. 


So  young,  so  fair,  so  early  called, 

I  scarce  know  how  to  weep  ; 

The  blow  that  felled  thee  hath  appalled, 

Even  sorrow's  self  to  sleep. 

r 

Had  I  but  dreamed  thou  couldst  have  died, 
The  thought  had  caused  my  tears  to  start ; 
The  rod  that  should  have  poured  their  tide, 
With  sudden  stroke  hath  petrified 
The  gushings  of  the  heart. 

Mournfully,  tearfully,  I  know 

We  watch  the  dull  decline 

Of  early  hearts  with  joyous  glow, 

And  cheeks  with  blush  like  thine ; 

Yet  in  that  sorrow's  strongest  sway, 

It  is  a  sadly  dear  delight, 

To  soothe  the  body's  slow  decay, 

And  check  the  lingering  spirit's  flight. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY.     135 

But  oh,  stern  death  will  coldly  lay, 
His  finger  on  that  form,  whose  light 
An  hour  before  was  full  and  gay, 
And  glorious  in  our  sight ! 


So  fair,  so  young,  when  last  I  heard 
The  voice  I  loved  to  hear, 
It  greeted  me  with  welcome  word : 
How  hushed  that  pall-hid  bier ! 
And  when  I  saw  that  joyous  eye, 
Brightening  with  every  glance-it  gave, 
I  could  have  idly  laughed,  if  I 
Had  dreamed  so  soon  its  radiancy 
^Vould  darken  in  the  grave. 


„ 


And  even  now  that  I  have  seen 
All  death  demands  of  life  ; 
The  things  that  are  not,  and  have  been, 
Seem  in  perpetual  strife. 
Greeting  and  grieving,  smiles  and  tears, 
The  light  laugh  and  the  silent  earth, 
In  clouds  and  sunshine  linger  here, 
Joy  smiles  on  sorrow,  and  thy  bier 
Seems  vocal  with  thy  mirth. 

* 

Yet  let  me  wake,  but  not  to  sigh, 
Thy  form  is  with  the  dead ; 


f* 

!36    ON  THE  DEATH  OP  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

Thy  soul,  thyself,  thou  couldst  not  die, 
The  undying  hath  but  fled. 
Death  is  a  conqueror  o'er  the  eye 
And  cheek,  but  to  the  soul  a  slave : 
^    He  opes  its  prison,  bids  it  fly, 

And  wings  its  joyous  course  on  high, 
To  him  whose  brightest  victory, 
Was  gathered  from  the  grave. 


M  DCCC  XXVIII. 


*, 

w 


'" 


«fe 


STANZAS 

ON  HEARING  THAT  THE  OFFICIALS  OF  WEST 
MINSTER  ABBEY  HAD  REFUSED  PERMISSION  TO 
BURY  THERE  THE  BODY  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


I 

THEY  have  spumed  the  proud  relics!  well,  thus 
should  it  be ; 

Oh  thus  should  the  bigots  who  feared  him  in  life, 
With  the  spirit  of  vampyres  exultingly  see, 

O'er  his  ashes  at  least,  they  were  victors  in  strife. 

Let  them  peck  at  the  laurels  he  nobly  hath  won, 
Let  them  try  the  full  tide  of  his  glory  to  stem ; 

Let  the  eagle  who  blazoned  his  breast  in  the  sun, 
Be  "  hawked  at,"  for  scorning  to  grovel  with  them. 

As  with  Brutus  of  old,  when  Augustus  denied 

A  place  by  his  rivals  in  patriot  fame, 
Each  Roman  recalled  his  proud  memory  and  sighed, 

And  frowned  on  the  tyrant,  and  murmured  his 
name. 

12* 

V 

* 


* 


#: 

138  ON    LORD    BYRON. 

Even  so  shall  the  Briton  unborn,  who  shall  tread 
Those  stones  which  the  genius  of  England  has 
made 

All  instinct  with  memory,  turn  from  the  dead, 
To  ask  where  the  bones  of  his  Byron  are  laid. 

then  shall  his  cheek  burn  with  blushes  to  know, 
That  his  country  permitted  these  things  of  a  day, 
To  aim  at  the  dead  their  inglorious  blow. 

And  to  wreak  their  poor  vengeance  on  genius  and 

clay. 

tP 

Poor  fools  !   did  they  dream  that  their  meanness 

could  blot 

That  glory  whose  blaze  can  all  dimness  consume ; 
That  his  claims  in  his  coffin  would  all  be  forgot, 
That  they  buried  his  fame  with  his  flesh  in  the 
tomb! 

What  recks  it  where  that  which  held  genius  may 

sleep, 

Whether  earth  may  rise  o'er  it,  or  oceans  may  roll ; 
The  flight  of  the  spirit  what  fetters  can  keep, 

And  what  death  can  extinguish  the  life  of  the 
soul. 

f* 

No,  the  treasures  he  gave  us,  the  fame  he  bequeathed, 

Are  ours  j  yet  we  feel  that  the  part  which  must 
die; 

» 


ON    LORD    BYRON.  139 

His  bones  shall  outlast  the  vile  slanders  they  breathed, 
And  be  hallowed  with  worship  wherever  they  lie. 

And  if  England  reject  them,  old  Greece  will  receive 
The  relics  of  him  who  fell  armed  for  her  fight ; 

O'er  the  tomb  o£the  bard  shall  her  warriors  grieve, 
In  the  muse  of  the  bard  shall  her  children  delight. 


o 


And  when  Freedom  and  Genius  in  triumph  return, 
To  rebuild  their  old  temples,  and  visit  the  new, 

The  first,  shall  an  altar  erect  o'er  his  urn, 
And  the  strains  of  the  second  shall  hallow  it  too. 


M  DCCC  XXVIH. 


I 


TO 


LADY,  when  fools  who  linger  near. 

Tell  thee  how  oft  my  heart  will  rove, 
They  but  abuse  thine  easy  ear, 

And  wrong  my  constant  love. 
Their  babblings  could  not  tell  thee,  dear, 

How  she  the  loving  gentle  dove, 
Wings  her  far  wandering  through  all  air, 

But  nestles  in  the  grove. 

Nay,  love  !  I  would  not  swear,  for  thou, 

All  simply  witching  as  thou  art, 
Knowest  that  the  lips  frame  many  a  vow, 

From  which  the  soul  would  start  : 
Before  one  only  shrine  I  bow, 

In  changeless  homage  of  the  heart ; 
Thou  doubt'st  it,  dear !  come,  question  now 

Its  every  hidden  part. 

Ask  of  the  nightly  pillow  where 

Her  form,  all  grace,  too  sweetly  came  ; 


TO    — -*~- 

Ask  of  the  lips  whicti  meant  for  prayer, 
Words  that  but  spelt  her  name  ; 

Ask  of  that  dream  which  lingering  there, 
With  dear  delusion  thrilled  my  frame  ; 

Ask  of  the  morning  thought,  if  e'er 
My  love  hath  been  the  same. 

Ask  of  the  day's  romance,  whose  light 

Was  but  her  worshipped  memory ; 
The  nerve  that  trembled  in  her  sight ; 

The  eye  that  could  undazzled  see 
The  glance  of  power's  meridian  height, 

Abashed,  if  she  but  looked  at  me  : 
Ask  these  if  love  so  constant,  might 

To  her  unfaithful  be  ! 

And  even  when  that  much-loved  eye, 

My  hope,  my  heart  is  garnered  in, 
Hath  turned  from  me  its  radiancy 

Another's  glance  to  win  ; 
Ask  of  that  sad  rebellious  sigh, 

Which  proudly  swells,  then  breaks  within 
This  agonizing  breast,  if  I 

Have  ever  constant  been. 

Ask  of  long  years  whose  every  flower, 
Found  in  her  smile,  its  sun  and  dew ; 


142  TO    

That  smile  which  lit  the  brightest  hour, 
And  streamed  its  ray  the  darkest  through  ! 

And  if  all  tell  thee  that  its  power, 

My  love  ne'er  changed,  but  stronger  grew; 

Then  ask  her  if  that  eye  should  lower, 
On  worshipper  so  true. 


DCCC  XXIX. 


* 


SEA    SONG, 


* 

* 


OVER  the  far  blue  ocean  wave. 

On  the  ocean  winds  I  flee. 
Yet  every  thought  of  my  constant  heart, 

Is  winging,  love,  to  thee ; 
For  each  foaming  leap  of  my  gallant  ship. 

Had  barbed  a  pang  for  me, 
Had  not  thy  form,  through  sun  and  storm, 

Been  my  only  memory. 

Oh,  the  seamew's  wings  are  fleet  and  fast, 

As  he  dips  in  the  dancing  spray ; 
But  fleeter  and  faster,  the  thoughts  I  ween, 

Of  the  dear  ones  far  away ! 
And  lovelier  too,  than  yon  rainbow's  hue, 

As  it  lights  the  tinted  sea, 
Are  the  daylight  dreams  and  sunny  gleams 

Of  the  heart  that  throbs  for  thee. 

o 

And  when  moon  and  stars  are  asleep  on  the  waves, 
Their  dancing  tops  among, 


144  SEA    SONG. 

And  the  sailor  is  winging  the  long  watch  hour, 

By  the  music  of  his  song ; 
When  our  sail  is  white  in  the  dark  midnight, 

And  its  shadow  is  on  the  sea, 
Oh,  never  knew  hall  such  festival, 

As  my  fond  heart  holds  with  thee  ! 


M  DCCC  XXIX 


| 


TO 


OH  the  spring  has  come  again,  love, 

With  beauty  in  her  train, 
And  her  own  sweet  buds  are  springing, 

To  her  merry  feet  again ; 
They  welcome  her  onward  footsteps, 

With  a  fragrance  full  of  song, 
And  they  bid  her  sip  from  each  dewy  lip, 

Of  the  rosy  tinted  throng. 

Oh  the  spring  has  come  again,  love. 

And  her  eye  is  bright  and  blue 
With  a  misty  passionate  light  that  veils 

The  earth  in  its  joyous  hue  ; 
And  a  single  violet  in  her  hair, 

And  a  light  flush  in  her  cheek, 
Tell  of  the  blossoms  maids  should  wear, 

And  the  love  tales  they  should  speak. 

The  spring  has  come  again,  love, 
And  her  home  is  every  where  : 

13 


146  TO     

She  grows  in  the  green  and  teeming  earth. 

And  she  fills  the  balmy  air ; 
But  she  dearly  loves,  by  some  talking  rill, 

Where  the  early  daisy  springs. 
To  nurse  its  leaves  and  to  drink  her  fill, 

Of  the  sweet  stream's  murmurings. 

The  spring  has  come  again,  love, 

On  the  mountain's  side  she  throws 
Her  earliest  morning  glance,  to  find 

The  root  of  the  first  wild  rose  ; 
And  at  noon  she  warbles  through  airy  throats. 

Or  sounds  in  the  whirring  wing 
Of  the  minstrel  throng,  whose  untaught  notes 

Are  the  joyous  hymns  of  spring. 

Oh  the  spring  has  come  again,  love,     > 

With  her  sky  lark's  cloudy  song ; 
Hark  !  how  his  echoing  note  rings  clear, 

His  fleecy  bowers  among  ! 
Her  morning  laughs  its  joyous  way, 

In  a  flood  of  rosy  light, 
And  her  evening  clouds  melt  gloriously , 

In  the  starry  blue  of  night. 

Oh  the  spring  has  come  again,  love, 
And  again  the  spring  shall  go  ; 


TO     147 

And  withered  her  sweetest  flowers,  and  dead 

Her  soft  brooks'  silvery  flow ; 
And  her  leaves  of  green  shall  fade  and  die. 

When  their  autumn  bloom  is  past, 
Beautiful  as  her  cheek,  whose  tint 

Looks  loveliest  at  the  last. 

Oh,  life's  spring  can  come  but  once,  love, 

And  its  summer  will  soon  depart, 
And  its  autumn  flowers  will  soon  be  nipped, 

By  the  winter  of  the  heart ; 
But  yet  we  can  fondly  dream,  love, 

That  a  fadeless  spring  shall  bloom, 
When  the  sun  of  a  new  existence  dawns, 

On  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 


M   DCCC  XXIX. 


MY      CHOICE. 


THERE  is   a  light  within  her   eye  that  brightens 

every  gaze, 
And  a  rosy  smile  upon  her  lip,  that  a  joyous  heart 

betrays ; 
And  a  fairy  frolic   in  her  form  that  makes   each 

motion  seem 
As  graceful  as  the  bounding  course  of  a  laughing 

mountain  stream ; 
The  long  and  jetty  lash  that  hides  the  deep  eye's 

blacker  hue, 
The  rival  roses  intier  cheek,  her  white  brow's  veins 

of  blue, 
Her  gentle  and  her  joyous  laugh,  and  the  music  of 

her  voice, 
Have  won  my  spirit  unto  her,  and  she  shall  be  my 

choice. 

• 

Her   spirit  is   all  gentleness,  and  yet   her  bearing 

high, 
And  passionate  thoughts  sleep  sweetly  in  the  circle 

of  her  eye, 


MY    CHOICE.  149 

And  a  pure  arid  delicate  pride  seems  ever  in  her 

breast  to  dwell, 
And  breathes  around  her  form  the  charm  and  magic 

of  a  spell ; 

So  gentle,  not  a  shaft  of  wit  in  malice  does  she  dip, 
And  satire's  self  comes  smilingly  and  sweetly  from 

her  lip, 
And  her  look  and  tone  whene'er  we  meet,  they  make 

my  heart  rejoice, 
And  win  my  spirit  unto  her,  and  she  shall  be  my 

choice. 


te 


There  may  be  eyes  as  deeply  dark,  and  brows  as 
fair  to  view, 

And  cheeks  as  softly  blended,  and  as  beautiful  of 
hue, 

And  gentle  hearts,  with  gentle  thoughts,  and  gentle 
ness  of  words, 

„ 

And  voices  like  to  her's  that  mocks  the  music  of 

spring  birds : 
I  think  there  may  be  such,  and  yet  I  scarcely  can 

say  why, 

For  as  in  visions  of  the  night,  they  pass  me  idly  by ; 
But  she  can  wield  me  with  a  word,  one  tone  of  her 

soft  low  voice  — 
She  hath  won  my  proud  soul  unto  her,  and  she  shall 

be  my  choice. 


M  DCCC  XXX. 


C  O  W  P  E  R 


To  a  warm  heart  unite  a  manly  mind, 
Let  playful  humor  blend  with  wit  refined, 
Let  him  the  charms  which  nature  spreads,  survey 
With  rapturous  eye,  with  answering  skill  portray ; 
His  proudest  notes  of  praise  let  virtue  claim, 
And  sin  but  hear  his  song  to  blush  for  shame ; 
Let  his  religion,  "  pure  and  undefiled," 
Be  fixed  though  Ifoeral,  and  though  firm  be  mild  ; 
Then  with  all  these  the  bard's  true  fire  combine, 
And  taste  shall  laud,  and  virtue  love  the  line : 
Both  shall  with  jealous  care  protect  his  fame, 
And  wreathe  their  brightest  laurels  for  his  name. 

And  such  was  Cowper  !  such  the  laurels  fair 
He  nobly  won,  and  shall  forever  wear ; 
For  he  was  nature's  bard,  and  shunned  for  her, 
The  city's  crowded  mart,  its  smoke  and  stir, 
Dwelt  in  her  haunts  retired,  and  loved  to  scan 
Her  pure  calm  scenes  yet  uncorrupt  by  man  ; 


ip?. 


COWPER.  151 

Her  varying  seasons  sang  with  varying  strain  : 
The  bright  young  spring  rejoicing  on  the  plain. 
And  summer's  mellowing  sun  and  flashing  bloom, 
And  gorgeous  autumn's  fruitage  and  perfume, 
And  dreary  winter,  when  in  cloud  and  storm 
He  sternly  stalks  to  wither  and  deform, 
Then  with  glad  pencil,  'midst  its  gloomiest  scene. 
Showed  the  heart's  heaven  unclouded  and  serene, 
Where  love,  content,  and  self-approving  worth, 
Encircling,  bless  the  dear  domestic  hearth. 

Oft,  when  at  morn,  or  noon,  or  "  dewy  eve," 
He  wanders  forth  to  think,  perchance  to  grieve, 
How  do  I  love  in  fancy's  steps  to  go, 
To  share  his  musing  or  partake  his  woe, 
While,  as  we  pass,  from  every  trembling  spray, 
The  warbling  wild-bird  cheers  our  devious  way  ; 
To  learn  from  hut  or  hall,  from  tree  or  flower, 
Some  natural  lesson,  taught  with  careless  power ; 
Some  graceful  moral  turned  with  easy  art, 
To  raise  the  mind,  and  purify  the  heart. 

The  bard  of  virtue,  for  whate'er  his  lay. 

In  feeling  serious,  or  in  humor  gay, 

Virtue  was  all  his  end,  and  in  her  cause 

He  gained  his  proudest  meed,  her  pure  applause  ; 

Against  her  foes  in  fight,  his  weapons,  wit, 

Strong  sense,  keen  satire,  he  was  sure  to  hit ; 


152  COWPER. 

In  venal  senate  or  in  courtly  bower. 

In  robes  of  holy  lawn  or  purple  power, 

Sin  met  his  gaze  the  same,  and  found  with  him, 

Its  tones  all  discord  and  its  tinsel  dim. 

And  oh,  when  man's  just  rights  awake  his  strain, 

And  freedom  bids  him  spurn  the  oppressor's  chain, 

When  her  warm  pulses  swell  along  his  line, 

Its  throb  how  firm,  its  diction  how  divine  ! 

It  glows  with  fervent  heat  of  patriot  zeal, 

And  nobly  speaks,  what  freemen  nobly  feel : 

Yes  !  he,  the  glory  true,  the  virtuous  fame, 

Which  prouder  lyres  have  sought,   may  proudly 

claim, 

"  That  not  in  fancy's  maze  he  wandered  long, 
"  But  stooped  to  truth,  and  moralized  his  song." 

But  hark  !  a  higher  note  !  can  human  lyre 

Ask  for  its  strings  a  more  celestial  fire  ! 

Yes  ;  though  this  earth  be  fair,  the  world  above 

Hath  purer  harmonies  and  holier  love  ; 

Though  dear   the    strain   with    sweet    persuasion 

crowned, 

Which  spreads  earth's  kindliest  charities  around, 
And  eloquent  in  love  with  noble  plan, 
Endears,  cements  the  brotherhood  of  man  ; 
Yet  heavenlier  themes  a  loftier  song  require, 
And  he  who  touched  the  prophet's  lips  with  fire, 


COWPER.  153 

Will  to  the  bard  some  glorious  dreams  supply, 
Whose  verse  uplifted,  lingers  in  the  sky ; 
Not  that  the  poet's  wing  should  always  burn 
For  heavenly  themes,  and  earth  indignant  spurn, 
Or  pass  with  careless  glance  or  heedless  tread,        , 
God's  works  below  in  rich  profusion  spread  ; 
Yet  let  his  "  eye's  fine  frenzy,"  wisely  roll, 
Let  those  who  charm  the  sense  improve  the  soul ; 
Let  them  though  winged  for  heaven  and  gods  in 

birth, 
Stoop  their  proud  plumes  to  bless  and  light  the 

earth. 

Oh,  had  that  bard  whose  bold  and  burning  page 

Has  stamped  his  name,  the  poet  of  an  age, 

Given  but  to  virtue's  cause  his  noble  fire, 

Which  even  while  sinning,  half  redeems  his  lyre, 

And  turned,  while  pure  emotions  Mrned  within, 

His  scorn  for  folly,  to  a  scorn  for  sin ; 

Then  hurled  his  moral  thunder,  till  each  stroke 

Made  wrong  and  outrage  tremble  while  he  spoke ; 

How  had  the  sin  he  shamed,  in  silence  slept, 

Or  touched  perchance,  repented,  while  it  wept : 

Oh  had  the  bard  been  such,  his  crown  how  green, 

His  life  how  pure,  his  parting  how  serene  ! 

His  dying  hour,  how  golden  its  decay, 

What  beams  upon  his  mounting  plumes  would  play ! 


154  COWPER. 

How  would  they  seem  with  seraph  strength  to  rise. 
While  his  voice  joins  the  music  of  the  skies. 
And  heaven  receives  though  hushed  his  earthly  lyre, 
A  welcome  minstrel  to  the  eternal  choir. 

Such,  such  was  Cowper ;  such  his  golden  crown : 
He  soared  to  heaven  to  bring  its  blessings  down ; 
He  shared  the  Christian's  faith,  the  Christian's  fears, 
His  .trembling  bliss,  his  ever-trusting  tears. 
With  him  the  saint  may  hope,  the  sinner  melt, 
And  all  must  feel,  for  what  he  taught  he  felt ; 
Felt  while  he  taught  in  weakness,  sin,  and  shame, 
The  height,  the  depth,  the  wonders  of  His  name  : 
"  Without  whom  we  are  poor,  give  what  He  may, 
"  And  with  whom  rich,  take  what  He  will  away." 

And  he  who  now,  though  closely  wed,  and  long, 
To  lore  which  scorns  the  muse,  yet  sins  in  song ; 
If  he  with  hand  unskilled,  though  heart  sincere, 
May  build  a  rhyme  which  beauty  deigns  to  hear ; 
Shall  think  his  sin  forgiven  if  she  but  deem, 
His  feeble  strain  hath  not  disgraced  his  theme, 
Or  bent  with  partial  smile  his  toil  to  pay, 
Approve  the  theme,  though  she  condemn  the  lay. 


K  DCCC  xxr. 


I 


I 


LADY,  the  stalk  you  gave  to  me, 

In  all  its  fresh  leaved  greenness,  brings    f 

Full  many  a  moment's  sunny  glee, 

In  radiance  back  on  memory's  wings : 

Those  wings  which  like  the  eastern  bird, 

Which  shows  each  breeze  a  different  dye, 

Darkly  or  brightly  waft,  thought  stirred, 

Long  bygone  visions  to  the  eye, 

As  sorrow's  gloom,  or  pleasure's  ray, 

Upon  their  varying  plumage  play. 

«fc          , '    Jfr 

And  such  come  thronging  round  me  now, 

Most  glorious  eyes  of  liquid  jet, 

Lips  Hybla  honeyed,  arching  brow, 

And  all  of  thee  I  worship  yet, 

Glances  on  which  I  fastened  mine  ; 

How  could  I  tear  one  glance  away  ? 

A  voice  whose  music  most  divine, 

Melted  to  words  from  lips  which  lay, 

Just  oped  to  let  the  sweet  breath  cleave  them, 

Which  slowly  left,  as  loth  to  leave  them. 


136  TO     

And  visions  of  the  wave  come  back, 
I  dream  again,  the  sunny  swell 
Breaks  round  our  prow's  careering  track, 
That  prow  it  loves  to  lave  so  well ; 
Mountains  swell  round  like  giants,  there 
They  shoot  their  far  blue  crests,  beneath 
Amid  the  shaggy  robes  they  wear 
The  swathing  mist  racks  wildly  wreathe, 
•      While  far,  far  down  the  dwarfed  woods  stand, 
In  shade  and  sunshine  o'er  the  land. 


A  moment  muse,  does  not  yon  height 
Seem  like  some  elder  son  of  fame, 
Towering  aloft,  where  living  light 
Sheds  cloudless  splendor  on  his  name  ? 
Are  not  those  forms  in  misty  maze, 
Proud  souls  yet  in  the  storms  of  time, 
Struggling  to  catch  some  glorious  rays, 
To  light  the  darkling  path  they  climb  ? 
While  yon  secluded  vales  express, 
Thy  bowers,  domestic  happiness  ! 


Again  I  dream,  see  far  displayed, 
How  calm  the  golden  ripples  lie ; 
Now  giving  back  our  sails  in  shade, 
Now  blue  with  the  o'erhanging  sky  ; 
Now  comes  the  wind,  each  warrior  wave 
Flings  his  white  war-cap  on  the  breeze, 


TO   157 

And  rears  his  storm  steed,  free  and  brave. 
And  onward  to  the  battle  flees, 
Tosses  his  little  life  away, 
And  leaves  a  foam,  'tis  glory's  play. 

Again,  again  'tis  night,  and  I 

Am  wafting  sadly  to  my  home  ; 

Sad  as  the  last  star  in  the  sky, 

Sad  as  the  last  wave's  lonely  foam,       ^ 

And  there  are  all  I  leave  behind, 

The  loved,  the  worshipped,  and  the  lost, 

The  hours  have  winged  me  like  the  wind, 

A  spray  upon  joy's  billow  tost ; 

Those  sunny  hours  have  sped  their  last, 

And  leave  me  here  to  mourn  the  past. 

Yet  why  lament,  I  came,  I  go, 

'Tis  all  that  life's  long  toil  can  give, 

It  can  but  fleeting  bliss  bestow, 

I  loved,  I  left,  is  all  we  live ; 

Away  with  such  vain  thoughts,  this  world 

Is  a  proud  race,  and  I  would  win, 

Yet  lady,  on  life's  tempest  hurled, 

Or  home's  sweet  shelter  house  within ; 

Amid  these  scenes  shall  memory  be, 

And  half  her  torch  be  lit  by  thee. 


M  DCCC  XXIX. 

14 


#       *'• 

LOOK    ALOFT. 


THE  following  lines  are  founded  upon  the  little  story  said  to  have 
been  related  by  the  late  Dr.  GODMAN,  of  the  ship  boy,  who  was  about 
to  fall  from  the  rigging,  and  was  only  saved  by  the  mate's  impressive 
exclamation,  "  look  aloft,  you  lubber  !" 


IN  the  tempest  of  life;  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail, 
If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim,  and  thy  caution  depart, 
"  Look  aloft !"  and  be  firm,  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow, 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy,  and  a  tear  for  each  woe, 
Should  betray  thee,  when  sorrows  like  clouds  are 

arrayed, 
"Look  aloft"  to  the   friendship  which  never  shall 

fade. 

I 
Should  the  visions  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to 

thine  eye, 

Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  fly, 
Then  turn,  and  through  tears  of  repentant  regret, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  sun  that  is  never  to  set. 


LOOK    ALOFT.  159 

Should  they  who  are  dearest,  the  son  of  thy  heart, 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom  in  sorrow  depart, 
"Look  aloft"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb. 
To  that  soil  where  affection  is  ever  in  bloom. 

And  oh,  when  death  comes  in  his  terrors  to  cast, 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart, 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  "  look  aloft"  and  depart. 


M  DCCC  XXX. 


** 

i 

MORNING   MUSINGS  AMONG   THE    HILLS. 


THE  Morn  !  the  Morn  !  this  mountain  breeze, 
How  pure  it  seems,  from  earth  how  free  ; 

What  sweet  and  sad  moralities 

Breathe  from  this  air  that  comes  to  me. 

Look  down  my  spirit,  see  below, 

Earth  darkly  sleeps  where  shades  prevail, 
Or  wakes  to  tears,  that  vainly  flow, 

Or  dreams  of  hopes  that  surely  fail. 

Why  shouldst  thou  linger  there,  and  burn 
With  passions  like  these  fools  of  time  ; 

Unfold  thy  wings,  their  follies  spurn, 
And  soar  to  yon  eternal  clime. 

Look  round,  my  spirit !  to  these  hills 
The  earliest  sunlight  lends  its  ray, 

Morning's  pure  air  these  far  heights  fills, 
Here  evening  holiest  steals  away. 

• 


MORNING    MUSINGS    AMONG    THE    HILLS.        ifil 

Thus  when  with  firm-resolving  breast, 
Though  bound  to  earth  thou  livest  on  high, 

Shalt  thou  with  earlier  light  be  blest, 
More  purely  live,  more  calmly  die. 

This  darkling  dawn  doth  it  not  bring 

Visions  of  former  glory  back, 
Arouse  my  spirit,  plume  thy  wing, 

And  soar  with  me  on  holier  track. 

Canst  thou  not  with  unclouded  eye 

And  fancy  rapt,  the  scene  survey 
When  darkness  bade  its  shadows  fly. 

And  earth  rose  glorious  into  day. 

Canst  thou  not  see  that  earth,  its  spring 

Unfaded  yet  by  death  or  crime, 
In  freshest  green  yet  mellowing, 

Into  the  gorgeous  autumn's  prime. 

Dost  thou  not  see  the  eternal  choir, 
Light  on  each  peak  that  woos  the  sky, 

Fold  their  broad  wings  of  golden  fire, 
And  string  their  seraph  minstrelsy. 

Then  what  sublimest  music  filled, 
Rejoicing  heaven  and  rising  earth, 

14* 


162       MORNING    MUSINGS    AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

When  angel  harps  the  chorus  swelled, 
And  sta'rs  hymned  forth  creation's  birth. 


See  how  the  sun  comes  proudly  on 
His  glorious  march  !  before  our  sight 

The  swathing  mists,  their  errand  done, 
Are  melting  into  morning  light. 

He  tips  the  peak,  its  dark  clouds  fly, 
He  walks  its  sides,  and  shades  retreat, 

He  pours  his  flood  of  radiancy 

On  streams  and  lowlands  at  its  feet. 

LORD  !  let  thy  rays  thus  pierce,  illume 
Each  dim  recess  within  my  heart ; 

From  its  deep  darkness  chase  all  gloom, 
And  to  its  weakness  strength  impart. 

Thus  let  thy  light  upon  me  rise, 
Here  let  my  home  forever  be ; 

Far  above  earth,  its  toys  and  ties. 
Yet  humbly  kneeling,  LORD,  to  thee  ! 


M  DCCC  XXXI. 


ELEGY    ON    AFRIC. 

A    FAVORITE    DOG    OF    A    FRIEND. 

"  In  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched."  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


FAREWELL,  farewell,  we  think  of  thee, 
At  each  familiar  step  we  trace, 

We  miss  thy  mirth  so  full  of  glee, 
Thy  bounding  form  of  life  and  grace. 

We  miss  thine  eye,  whose  look  conveyed 
A  welcome  in  each  wistful  glance, 

And  bright  with  almost  thought,  portrayed 
A  soul  within  thy  countenance. 

We  miss  thy  wakeful  bark,  when  dawn 
Roused  thee  to  hail  the  rising  sun ; 

We  miss  thine  evening  bay  long  drawn, 
As  wailing  that  the  day  was  done. 

No  more  shall  thine  expressive  fawn, 
Mute,  pleading,  eloquent,  be  tried, 


164  ELEGY    OF    AFRIC. 

Not  all  in  vain  to  scour  the  lawn, 
Or  gambol  at  thy  master's  side. 

No  more,  no  more,  shalt  thou  be  found, 
In  form  beneath  thy  favorite  tree  ; 

Still,  still,  it  sheds  sweet  shade  around, 
But  never  more  to  shelter  thee. 

Thy  little  playmates  look  for  thee, 
With  asking  gaze,  and  lisp  thy  name, 

For  thou  wast  glad  to  join  their  glee, 
And  at  their  call  familiar  came. 

Ah,  now  those  tiny  fingers  press 

Thy  form,  and  hug  thy  neck  no  more  ; 

Nor  shout,  nor  call,  nor  kind  caress, 
Can  thine  accustomed,  face  restore. 

We  saw  that  form  so  slowly  waste, 
We  heard  thy  low  complaining  moan ; 

We  saw  thine  eye  grow  dim,  yet  haste 
To  answer  to  each  kindly  tone. 

Yet,  Afric  !  as  we  think  of  thee, 
So  faithful  in  thine  humble  lot, 

We  spurn  thee  not  from  memory, 
We  loved  thee,  and  forget  thee  not. 


DCCC  XXXII. 


TO 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    A    FAVORITE    BIRD. 


ALAS,  sweet  cousin,  how  can  I 

In  harsh  discordant  rhyme  rehearse, 

His  sweet,  sweet  song  whose  melody, 
Had  charms  beyond  the  reach  of  verse  ? 

Ah,  I  should  need  his  tuneful  art, 
His  tone  with  more  than  music  rife, 

In  fitting  numbers  to  impart, 
The  tale  of  his  harmonious  life. 

And  yet  that  tale  how  shortly  told, 

One  feast  of  flowers,  one  ceaseless  strain ; 

At  morn  to  plume,  at  eve  to  fold 
His  wings,  to  feed  and  sleep  again. 

A  simple  life  of  joyance  his, 

A  life  of  song,  no  care  had  he, 
Except  perchance  thy  glance  to  miss, 

And  in  sad  silence  pine  for  thee. 


166 


Blest  in  thy  smile  of  sunshine  given, 
His  pinions  sought  no  softer  sky  ; 

Happy  to  find  his  loveliest  heaven, 
In  the  blue  beauty  of  thine  eye. 

1 
And  basking  in  that  smile  so  bright, 

He  had  no  wish  his  wings  to  free  ; 
Found  in  its  beam  his  full  delight, 
And  loved  his  sweet  captivity. 

But  ah,  that  eye,  that  joyous  voice, 
No  more  his  dreamy  sleep  shall  break  ; 

No  more  his  little  heart  rejoice, 

Nor  songs  of  warbling  welcome  wake. 

In  vain  spring  woos  with  balmy  breath, 
And  bears  sweet  music  on  her  wings  ; 

The  fine  quick  ear  is  dull  in  death, 
The  answering  throat  no  longer  sings. 

His  lonely  mate  has  lost  her  cheer, 
Or  if  to  song  her  bosom  stir  ; 

Fixes  her  tiny  head  to  hear, 

The  note  that  ne'er  shall  answer  her. 


That  note  which  hailed  thee  to  the  last, 
And  called  thee  to  his  cage  to  see, 


TO    167 

That  he  was  happy,  thus  to  cast 
His  last,  last  lingering  look  on  thee. 

Then  since  forever  hushed  his  strain, 
Lay  him  in  fitting  grave  to  sleep, 

Where  spring's  soft  dews  and  summer's  rain, 
With  gentle  tears  his  death  may  weep. 

There  let  the  first  soft  sunbeam  fling, 
A  fresher  green  o'er  all  the  ground  ; 

There  the  first  lonely  wild  flower  spring, 
And  shed  its  sweetest  fragrance  round. 

Thither  let  each  fond  bird  repair, 
At  music's  grave  its  vows  to  pay, 

Or  doomed  to  die,  seek  refuge  there. 
And  swan-like  sing  its  soul  away. 

M  DCCC  XXXIt. 


HYMN 

WRITTEN    DURING    THE    PREVALENCE    OF    THE 
CHOLERA. 


LORD  !  while  the  wasting  evil  still 
Walks  on  in  its  mysterious  path, 

The  worker  of  thine  awful  will, 

The  scourge  of  thine  awakened  wrath. 

Humbled  in  heart,  low  in  the  dust, 
We  conscious  kiss  the  avenging  rod ; 

Confess  thy  judgment  ever  just, 

And  trembling,  own  that  thou  art  God. 

Yet,  LORD  !  wilt  thou  forever  smite, 
Once  more  dread  father,  yet  once  more 

Lift  to  thy  suffering  people's  sight, 
Thy  healing  signal  as  of  yore. 

No  offering  meet,  have  we  to  make, 
No  works,  no  rights,  no  self-proud  plea 


HYMN.  169 

Mercy  we  beg,  free  for  his  sake 

Who  died  for  us  to  reism  with  thee. 


o 


Then  shall  we  sing,  thy  pardon  won, 
That  union  how  sublimely  sweet, 

When  in  the  Father  and  the  Son, 
Thy  justice  and  thy  mercy  meet. 


DCCC  XXXII. 


15 


LINES 

WRITTflfltf    IN  THE  ALBUM  OF  A  VERY  YOUNG    LADY. 


SWEET  Lilly,  you  know  I  am  wedded 

To  a  ruthless  and  barbarous  lore. 
Which  all  poets  from  instinct  have  dreaded. 

And  the  muses  devoutly  abhor  ; 
And  they,  like  their  lovely  relations, 

Who  our  poetry  make  here  below, 
Are  rather  averse  from  flirtations 

With  men  who  are  married,  you  know. 

Yet  no  matter,  my  promise  is  plighted, 

And  though  they  wont  smile  on  my  need, 
I  shall  think  all  their  frowning  requited, 

Should  you  take  but  "the  will  for  the  deed 
Besides  I  fear  jilting  their  trade  is, 

And  they  're  tyrants,  so  I  shall  not  choose 
To  trust  the  caprice  of  these  ladies, 

But  take  you,  my  dear  girl,  for  my  muse. 


LINES. 

And  now  then,  my  sweet  inspiration  ! 

What  fond  prayer  shall  friendship  put  up  ? 
What  blessings  of  wealth,  love,  and  station, 

Shall  I  pray,  may  o'erflow  in  your  cup  ? 
Shall  I  wish  you  those  graces,  so  winning 

Their  way  to  our  innermost  heart, 
That  we  find  there  love's  empire  beginning, 

Ere  friendship  is  warned  to  depart  ? 

I  would  wish  that  your  sky  in  life's  morning, 

May  be  fair  as  a  morn  in  sweet  June, 
That  each  scene  with  fresh  verdure  adorning, 

W^arm,  cloudless,  and  bright  be  its  noon ; 
And  as  calmly  and  tenderly  shining, 

As  the  autumn  sun  dies  in  the  west, 
Be  your  evening  of  age,  as  declining, 

It  sinks  slowly  at  night  to  its  rest. 

All  these  do  I  wish  you,  yet,  Lilly, 

I  dare  not  thus  cease  this  poor  rhyme, 
For  I  fear  I  should  wish  for  you  illy, 

Did  I  ask  but  the  mere  gifts  of  time  7 
What's  beauty  ?  why  wish  you  to  win  it  ? 

That  eye,  and  that  lip,  and  that  brow. 
Were  yesterday  beauty,  but  in  it 

The  reptile  is  revelling  now. 


172  LINES. 

And  wit,  with  its  meteor  flashes ; 

How  dazzles  it  but  to  decay ! 
Can  you  find  its  quick  flame  in  those  ashes  ? 

Can  you  call  back  its  voice  to  that  clay  ? 
Yes,  all  idly  my  prayer  had  ascended, 

If  one  word  in  that  prayer  were  forgot, 
In  whose  compass  all  blessings  are  blended, 

That  friendship  could  wish  for  your  lot. 

That  word  is  religion ;  fools  flout  it, 

And  tell  us  'tis  nonsense  and  stuff, 
But  believe  me,  dear  girl,  that  without  it, 

This  world  will  be  bitter  enough ; 
And  with  it  all  joy  will  be  heightened, 

And  holier  all  friendship  and  love, 
And  the  darkness  of  sorrow  be  brightened, 

With  a  ray  that  beams  but  from  above. 

And  in  death,  be  it  late  ere  you  've  found  it, 

It  will  make  your  couch  prouder  than  kings', 
For  the  angels  of  heaven  shall  surround  it, 

With  the  radiance  and  rush  of  their  wings  ; 
Yes,  safe  will  it  guide  you,  if  granted, 

Through  earth's  changes,  and  sorrows,  and  strife, 
Till  a  tree  in  God's  paradise  planted, 

You  bloom  by  the  river  of  life. 


M.  DCCC   XXXIII. 


